THE BABYLON PROJECT

Shores of the Lethe

by Kate and Elise Fry

Copyright © 2023 Kate Fry & Elise Fry

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.  Where real-life institutions, businesses, and places appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogue are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work.

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.  

No AI training: Without in any way limiting the authors’ exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to ‘train’ generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited.  The authors reserve all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

Imprint: Independently published

Cover design: Kate & Elise Fry

To Megan, who deserves to see her name in print in these books.  You have been an inspiration and a truly safe space for as long as I’ve known you.  You are brave, intelligent, funny, and all-around amazing, and the whole world should know it.

To the Queens of the castle: Maria Floresguerra and Colleen Kidder.  Thank you for your unwavering support, your late-night sounding board sessions, and your friendship.  I don’t know what I’d do without you both.

And, as always, for Chris, who is my always.  My constant in the chaos, my north star even in the cloudiest of skies.  Everything I ever write will always be dedicated to you, who holds all the keys to my heart.  

⁓Elise⁓

To G – Life has thrown us many a curve ball, but I am blessed in you and our little family.  You, W, and the girls keep me smiling.

To my Mom – I cherish every moment we get to spend together. Here’s to cheeky glasses of green-dot Chardonnay and shopping for shoes!

To the McThanaslans and shared hours of laughter and good cheer.

⁓Kate⁓

The Babylon Project is a series which deals with darker content.  The struggles the characters go through and challenges they face, especially in Shores of the Lethe, may be difficult for some people to read.  If you’re at all anxious about content, please refer to the more detailed list at the bottom of this page for specific triggers and warnings.  We appreciate you as readers and want to make sure that we are respectful and responsible about what we put out into the world.  

With love,

Elise and Kate

Potential triggers in Shores of the Lethe include, but are not limited to, violent themes, adult language, gaslighting (with heavy emphasis on mental health), medical experimentation, torture, descriptions of torture, brainwashing, depression, addiction, obsessive compulsive disorder, references to self-harm, and sexual scenes.  Please take care of yourself when choosing to read.  

Contents

THE BABYLON PROJECT

Copyright

Dedication

Pronunciation Guide

Character List

Previously in The Babylon Project

PROLOGUE

JANUARY

Waking Up

Keys to the Castle

Learning to be a Good Girl

Alaskan Wood Frog

Hospital Corners

Bar Fight

Art Class

Hold on Cole

Isolating a Harp String

Making Lists

Meeting Dr. Beaufort

Fragile Ties

Little Bird

Smoke and Mirrors

Kicked-Out K’s

FEBRUARY

Old Friends, New Faces

Cage Fighting

Saving Each Other

A New Clinical Trial

Homestar Runner

Anything for Family

Too Many Colors

Getting Inked

After the Shop

Group

Off the Team

A Cottage and a Dream

For Me and Mine

Grasping at Straws

The Roller Coaster

Kitchen Duty

Butter Cake

MARCH 

The Swedish Chef

Operation Paperclip

Plotting

Going Fishing

Flashing Clocks

Stepping Up

Jelly Roll

Damn Unicorns

A Los Amigos

The First Purple Day

The Dead Don't Need to Eat

The Taste of Happiness

Oversharing

Sutures

Boy Scouts and Balloons

Fair Winds and Following Seas

Happiness and Poison

For Our Brave Boys

APRIL

T.A.R.T.

Pip Pip Cheerio

Spying on a Diplomat

Gollum

Avengers Assemble

Going to the Quiet Place

Lost in the Garden

Rusted Cogs and Gears

The Space Between

In the Year 900

Catching a Live One

Translations

28 April

Wake Up

Prize Heifer

Following Directions

Taste the Rainbow

The Best Laid Plans

At the Wye’s Edge

Une Dame Française

Road to Newport

Clown Car

A Hall of Mirrors

Rhinos and Romance

Snowdonia

Ashes, Ashes

Purple Rain

Hot Lemon Water

Cats and Squirrels

Safe as Houses

Whiskey and Ham Sandwiches

House of Cards

Acknowledgements

The American Team’s Tattoo

Babylon Logo

Kronos Logo

Books in this Series

About The Authors

Pronunciation Guide

The American Team:

Kailani – Kye-lahn-ee, or Kye

Walker – Walk-er

Maddox – Ma-dux

Jonah – Joe-nah

Hideo – Hi-DAY-oh (with a short “i” sound), or DAY-oh 

Lachlainn – Lahk-len, or Lahk-ee 

The British Team:

Maela – May-luh, or May

Seef – Safe

Emlyn – M-lynn

Jorge – Hore-hey

Kavi – Kah-vee

Character List

The American Team:

Kailani Reed – Seattle Police Department, age 28

Hideo Tanaka – Seattle Police Department, age 29

Jonah Shotridge – Seattle Police Department, age 27

Lachlainn Baird – Kailani’s landlord and friend, age 33

Maddox Smith – Team Lead, CIA, age 31

Walker Donovan – 2nd in Command, FBI, age 29

Gemma Doll – Kailani’s best friend and roommate, age 27

The British Team:

Maela Driscoll – Postdoc, age 26

Emlyn Ryder – MI5 agent, age 28

Jorge Alfaro Giménez – Counselor, age 26

Kavi Sharma – Yoga instructor, age 27

Seef Arend – MI6 agent, age 30

Other Characters:

Elizabeth Cole – Director of Gaia, international philanthropic foundation

Fallon Agnew – Elizabeth Cole’s personal assistant

Elena Gomez – Director of the Center for Developing Sciences, US Government

James Tennireef – Senator from Washington State

Jean-Jacques d’Aumale – Member of the French Foreign Affairs Committee

Magnus Bühler – European lead for Babylon

Marcus Anderson – US state governor

Chantalle – Head of a ring of high-end escorts in the Seattle area

Cooper Firth – Playboy, client of Chantalle

Flores – Chantalle’s cyber-security expert

Marco – One of Chantalle’s assistants

Terrence – Chantalle’s best friend

Magda – Kronos operative

Dr. Phos – Lead researcher at Mt. Ida

Enid Garner – Counselor at Mt. Ida

Estie – Counselor at Mt. Ida

Iara Beaufort – Doctor at Mt. Ida

Iris Beaufort – Orderly at Mt. Ida and Iara Beaufort’s niece

Dye-job – Nurse at Mt. Ida

Nom-nom – Nurse at Mt. Ida

Mrs. Riggins – Cook at Mt. Ida

Cara – Patient at Mt. Ida

Dennis – Patient at Mt. Ida

Zale – Patient at Mt. Ida

Zeb – Iris’s boyfriend

Annie – Landlady of The Queen’s Head

Hook/Ryan – Gemma’s boyfriend

Previously in The Babylon Project

According to Elise:

Stuff happened.

Then other stuff happened.

And now this is happening.

According to Kate:

Read Books One and Two.

Oh, very well…

The Babylon Project: Rise of Kronos

American Maela Driscoll, a postdoctoral researcher at Queen’s College, London, takes part in a medical trial which triggers telesthesia, a latent ability to see distant events as they are happening real-time.  During a vision, she witnesses a crime, which brings her to the attention of M15 agent Emlyn Ryder.  Emlyn is also an operative for Babylon, a multinational, intergovernmental organization dedicated to studying the paranormal and its use for military and law-enforcement purposes.  Emlyn threatens Maela with deportation if she does not agree to cooperate with his ongoing investigation into local crime lord Ratko Kurgan.  Despite her initial misgivings, Maela discovers that she enjoys the work and learning about her ability, even as things become progressively more dangerous.  Along the way, she meets Jorge Alfaro Giménez, a social worker with a secret talent, and his friend Kavi Sharma, a yoga instructor with a troubled past, who both help Maela develop her telesthesia.   As she becomes stronger, Maela is able to spy remotely on Ratko, as well as his lover Magda, who secretly reports to a shadowy woman known only as Rhea.  By chance, Ratko discovers that Maela is working at MI5 and has her kidnapped and tortured for information.  Magda is angry that the kidnapping could draw attention and has Maela released, then cleans up by killing Ratko and his top men. The team decides to move to a safehouse until things calm down.   

Meanwhile, in Seattle, WA, contract hire at the Seattle Police Department, empath Kailani Reed, has been forced to join the US-based Babylon task-force, having been coerced by Elena Gomez, Director of the Center for Developing Sciences.  The team is run by Maddox Smith, a former Black Ops officer in the military and current member of the CIA.  His second-in-command is FBI agent Walker Donovan.  Rounding out the team is Kailani’s handler and friend Hideo Tanaka, and ‘bleeder’ Jonah Shotridge, who has the ability to draw off excess feelings of pleasure and restore emotional balance.  A loner by circumstance, outside of Hideo, Kailani only really trusts her best friend and roommate, Gemma Doll, and their landlord, gentle giant Lachlainn Baird. During the course of a murder investigation, the team stumbles across the name “Kronos”, which they link to an international organization suspected of human and drug trafficking.  They have little information and no obvious leads, although coincidental timing ties Senator James Tennireef loosely to the investigation.  The team thinks they might have had a breakthrough when they find out about Anthony Bianchi, a known human trafficker.  However, hours after being interviewed, Bianchi is killed in a car accident.

The Babylon Project: Gates of Tartarus

Gates of Tartarus picks up immediately where Rise of Kronos ends.  While looking into the death of Bianchi, Kailani and Walker meet with a witness who also happens to run Seattle’s most exclusive high-end escort agency.  The car crash turns out to have nothing to do with Kronos, but the interview results in an unexpected alliance with Chantalle and her friends.  At the same time, to see what, if anything, Tennireef knows, Kai agrees to have dinner with him, but the date goes disastrously wrong when someone tampers with her brakes.  New leads on Kronos are proving frustratingly elusive, although the team is sure that Tennireef is the way in, but the investigation is stymied when he agrees to give Gomez further funding for the Center for Developing Sciences.  Meanwhile, Kai is growing closer to Lachlainn and the new members of her team, although Hideo just wants to be friends and Maddox is doing his best to ensure that everyone’s personal and professional relationships are kept strictly separate.   

Across the Atlantic, Maela is thrown into self-defense training with Seef Arend, taciturn MI6 agent and UK liaison for Babylon.  With the techniques she is learning from Emlyn, she manages to have several visions of Magda and Tennireef, but the information is impossible to verify through independent means.  As Maela’s control is still erratic, she decides to risk a booster shot of the drug from the original medical trial, run by the Gaia Foundation, which ends up enhancing her ability.  The UK team also decides to brief Elizabeth Cole, Head of Gaia, in the hopes that she will share information on the formula.  Elizabeth is intrigued and offers both Maela and Kai jobs at Gaia, which has a psychic-sciences arm.  Maela isn’t sure she wants to accept, though, as Emlyn, Kavi, and Jorge all want to date her.

The UK and US investigations are moving surely if slowly forward, when Kailani and her team discover a group of women buried alive beneath a Seattle factory floor.  Kailani gets them out, but their terror shatters her shields and almost shuts down her brain.  While recovering in hospital, she is devastated to learn of a seeming betrayal by Hideo and Gemma, but the revelation from one of the trafficked women that Kronos has likely infiltrated Gaia has to take precedence.  Cole is skeptical but initiates a search for the mole.

The UK team is following up on Ratko’s network and a possible connection with Kronos and Russian gangs when Kai drops by Gaia’s Seattle headquarters for an update on the search.  Getting an odd reading there, Kai contacts Maela, who does a viewing and realizes the identity of the mole – and the head of Kronos. 

Knowing that more evidence than “feelings” and “visions” are needed, Maela and Kailani decide to accept the job offers at Gaia and are invited by Cole to the Foundation’s gala fundraiser in London to celebrate.  The two teams finally meet and formulate a plan to bring down Kronos, but Maela and Kai are kidnapped from the fundraiser.  Kai wakes up at the Mt. Ida sanitorium, where she learns she has been a patient for several years, suffering from delusions.

It’s a great huge game of chess that’s being played—all over the world—if this is the world at all, you know.

⁓ Lewis Carroll

PROLOGUE

Prince, do not ask in a week

Where they are, nor in a year,

For only this chorus remains:

But where are the snows of yesteryear?

⁓ François Villon

Silence.  Endless.  Drowning me in darkness, a swathe of black velvet so rich and pure I want to reach out, to stroke it and see if it’s as soft as it looks, but I can’t move.  I’m paralyzed, my limbs dead.  Move, my mind whispers.  Roll over.  But I can’t.  I try and I try, and the torpor is agony.  Finally, I scream hysterically, frantic for someone, anyone, to come and shake me into mobility.  I know, if I can raise myself, just a fraction, my body will wake and my suffering will end.  But no one comes…

Flashes of light in the dark, darting fireflies jeweled like hummingbirds.  I stare, entranced, at the flecks of gold, magenta, blue, and green, raising one tremulous finger to touch, and slowly become aware that I am corporeal.  But with understanding comes pain, a sharp throbbing in my head, counting out my heart beats like the hands of a clock.  I groan, lowing like a calf, and a soft wind sighs, “Oh, Maela, what a mess you’ve made.” 

◆◆◆

Sometimes I dream.  I float in the void, gazing down at my body, at the flaccid limbs, ghost white like a fish’s belly, the sleep-matted hair and blood-spatter freckles, the blue eyes gazing unseeing as people prod and poke, lifting an arm, inserting a needle, murmuring, conferring.  I cock my head, wondering what they’re saying.  They look so grave, measuring, marking on charts, checking notes.  A snippet of nonsense tickles my ear: “They sent for some doctors / In sneezles / And wheezles / To tell them what ought / To be done. / All sorts and conditions / Of famous physicians / Came hurrying round / At a run.”  I laugh, but the cracked lips don’t move.  Come on – that was funny!  Move, damn you!  Not a twitch, but the white-coated phantoms don’t seem to care.  They just take my pulse and tap another syringe.  I frown, then my heart constricts.  I’m not…?  No.  No, surely not.  If I were, I wouldn’t dream… would I?  “Ho there, does this one wish to dwell with me? / To eat clay as food, to drink dust as wine? / I weep for the men who have left their wives. / I weep for the wives torn from the embrace of their husbands.”  My mind skitters inside my useless skull, jabbering, suddenly terrified.  Where are they?  Where are they?!  I am being embalmed!  I am being embalmed alive, and nothing and no one can prevent it now: he’s already pumped the formaldehyde deep, deep into my veins.  I’m going to be sick.  What has he done with my organs?  At the thought, a wave of nausea suffuses me, and if I could, I’d convulse.  There – just there.  Did my chest move?  I don’t see any cut marks.  But I’m clothed, of course, draped in a hospital gown.  Frantic, I try to pat myself down.  Oh, please.  Please!  I could cry.  Brain, stomach, liver, lungs, intestines.  Has he left them to rot inside me?  But of course he has.  Taken them out, weighed them, and sewn them back in.  Why wouldn’t he?  Oh gods.  How long before I begin to decompose?  How long before my skin shrinks, the soft tissues putrefying, and the flesh sloughs slowly from my bones?  A day?  Less?  I check my nails.  Do they look longer?  My hair?  And now I’m cackling hysterically, but no one notices, because I’m dead.  Soon, I’ll be a skeleton, and in a thousand years, someone just like me will come along and dig me up, and they’ll do very clever things with isotopes and write me up in a book: “strontium signature indicates that subject was born in western North America and spent time in Europe before she died, and nitrogen and carbon levels denote a diet high in carbohydrates”.  One of the doctors bends over me, shining a light into my right eye.  She nods and ticks something off on her clipboard.  Help me, I beg her silently.  Oh, please.  Don’t do this.  I’ve only got the wheezles.  She turns to her colleague.  I cringe as he advances.  Is he going to inject me again?  But, no, he’s bringing out strips of cloth and lifting my leg.  My winding-sheet!  I thrash as he starts to wrap my foot.  I’m sorry – I’m sorry!  Don’t bury me alive!  He smirks, tightening the binding, and my mind breaks.  I howl, a coyote cry of pain, but no one comes to save me, the sound only immanent in my fragmenting soul.

◆◆◆

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, I manage to blink.  Once.  Twice.  My lids feel heavy, weighted down… Charon’s coin?  I whimper, and something stirs.  My hand is lifted, a strong thumb pressed into my wrist.  I can feel myself slipping back into the shadows, and I fight their pull, but I’m so tired.  The thumb is now pushing up my eyelid, and I know there must be a face somewhere, but everything is spinning.  It’s like I’ve been caught in a squall at twilight; my vision is blurred and my ears are ringing and my skin feels cold and clammy.  I retch, stomach heaving.  And now something’s rolling me gently over, angling my head down, and I vomit, choking on the sour taste, a thin thread of saliva hanging from my bottom lip.  I start to cry with humiliation, feeling weak and sick, but there’s also a flush of relief, because I cannot be dead yet, can I?  A cloth wipes my chin, and I’m guided back on to the pillows.  And now a cup of water comes to my lips, and I try to turn my head, but the hand insists.  I slump, and the movement makes me wince, slight though it is; my body is a pulsing bruise, but I embrace the pain, for the dead don’t feel.  Move, my mind rejoices, wiggle your toes, and…  No.  Oh gods, no.  Laughter, gleeful and mocking.  I force my eyes open to see I’m surrounded by a heavy fog.  There’s a cold wind blowing, bringing with it a sulfurous stench, child of mud and carrion.  The laughter comes again, and I turn my head sharply, dread so much ice in my veins.  Strange, jerking figures cavorting before me, as if they were electrified.  My heart stops, and I know then that the nightmare is true, my reprieve only temporary.  I am a wraith, and life was the illusion.  I scream in terror, and one of the figures comes towards me, holding up a scythe.  And I cannot back away, can only watch as a bony hand takes hold of me, steadying me for the blade.    

A swing.  A bite.  And the promise: “No more dreaming for you.”

JANUARY

She’s good at being good for other people,

Can’t help seeing shadows

Of dirt on the window

When sunlight gushes through

….

Sometimes she disappears herself

As if the things she was, weren’t here.

⁓ Ruth Padel

Waking Up

Maela

“Maela?  Maela, can you hear me?  Blink if you can.  Alright, good.  Don’t worry, Maela, you’re safe.  You’ve been in an accident, but you’re safe and recovering at the Mount Ida sanatorium.  Do you understand?  Stay with us, Maela.  Don’t fall back asleep…  Good girl.”

What?  Where… where am I?  Everything’s fractured, a cacophony of light; I blink again, lids heavy with sleep, and the noises coalesce.  There’s a strange woman sitting in a chair, dressed all in white.  Her skin looks like an overripe tomato that’s just about to split, and there’s a hint of a mustache on her upper lip.  Who…?  Who the fu–?  And why is she talking to me as if I were a child?  What…?  Where…?  Where are the guys?

“Guys,” I mumble.  God, I’m tired. I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with a rabid kangaroo.

“Guys?” she repeats, looking confused.

Oh great.  I’m talking to an idiot.  “Gu-y-s,” I say again, slowly.  Annoyingly, a little drool gathers at the corner of my mouth, and she wipes it away.  Her forehead creases, like she’s trying to work out what I’m saying.

Oh for the love!  And then I remember.  “Kai!  Dress!”  I try to sit up, to swing my legs over the side of the bed, but my limbs won’t respond.  They’re just… dead.  I’m helpless.  Trapped.  My breath starts to come quicker, and my eyes dart about the room.  It’s small, with stark-white walls, and doesn’t look like any of the rooms I’ve seen so far at the Livery Company.  Maybe I’m in one of the back offices?  Did I faint?  

“Live–” I begin.

“Yes, Maela, you’re alive and at Mount Ida.  Everything’s going to be OK.”    

Mount Ida?  What the fuck is Mount Ida, and how did I get here?  I shake my head weakly.  “What?  No!”  Then my eye catches on the window.  It’s high up in the wall, and there’s sunlight streaming through it.  What the–? 

“Sun,” I begin to pant, suddenly clammy.

“Yes, it’s a lovely sunny day!  Isn’t that nice?” she beams, all jolly hockey sticks and bonhomie.

No, it is not fucking nice.  Last time I checked, it was nearing midnight.  What the absolute and utter fuck is going on?  How long have I been out?  What happened?  Did I hit my head?  And why can’t I move my legs?  

“So, Maela, do you remember anything about the accident?”  She peers at me, and I gaze back at her uncomprehendingly.  Accident?

“No?  Well, post-traumatic retrograde and anterograde amnesia are not uncommon following a concussion, and you hit your head pretty hard.  I’m afraid that you did suffer some neuronal cell loss, what with the impact and the drop in cerebral blood flow before the paramedics could stabilize you, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t recover enough to live a full and rewarding life.”  She smiles kindly at me, like an unhinged garden gnome.

Neuronal cell loss?  Is she saying I’m brain-damaged!?  At the thought, my heart gives a panicked little squeeze, and I stare at her, appalled.

“Oh dear, I’ve distressed you, haven’t I?  Matron’s always saying I’m too blunt with the patients, but I say the sooner you face up to reality, the sooner you can find a way to deal with it.  Now, what about trying to sit up a little?  Let me help you.”  She places a meaty arm about my shoulders and pulls my unresisting body forward.  “There we are!  Comfy?  Let’s pat the pillow a bit more into shape…  OK?”

I let my head fall forward, more because I can’t seem to keep it up properly than because I want to comply.  Something seems to have gone wrong with my wiring, or maybe I over-exerted myself in my last training session.  I told Seef an extra set of stair runs was a bad idea.

“The doctor will be so pleased to hear you’re awake,” she prattles on.  “Of course, you’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while now, so we were hopeful.  Still, you never know when a patient is going to take a turn for the worse.  But you’re one of the lucky ones!”

She is deranged.  There is nothing wrong with me.  OK, something’s clearly happened, and I’ve suffered a mild concussion – like when I was ten and fell off the monkey bars while pretending to be an Olympic gymnast – but I’m fine.  

“How about a nice glass of apple juice?  We need to get some calories into you!  All skin and bones!”  She tuts, as if it’s somehow my fault, and stands.  “I’ll be right back.  Don’t go anywhere!” she chuckles.

Oh har, har.  Only I could end up with an incompetent nurse who thinks she’s a stand-up comedian.  I roll my eyes irritably at her back.  OK, Maela.  Now that Nurse Shits-and-Giggles has stopped talking, let’s figure things out.  You were at the ball, and Kailani needed help with her dress.  The waiter showed you to the Beadle’s Office, and then…  Here, I pause, frowning.  There’s a blank after I open the door.  Did I trip and hit my head on the frame?  What’s going on?  And where am I?  Am I in the hospital?  Nothing’s making sense, and my head’s starting to pound.    

The door opens, and the… nurse, I guess, bustles back into the room, holding a juice box and straw.  “Here we are!” she says brightly.  Oh come on!  A juice box?  I’m perfectly capable – I try to raise my arms, but they’re feeling unaccountably numb, so I can only watch as she lifts the box and straw to my mouth.  “Yummy!  Doesn’t that taste nice?  We’ll have you back on solid foods in no time!”

I am in a madhouse.  What is this ghastly woman wittering on about?  Back on solid foods?  Anyone would think I’d been here for weeks.  I tell her with my eyes what I think of her.

“Yes, I know,” she pats my hand.  “Don’t fret.  Again, perfectly normal to be confused. Patients coming out of a coma often are.”

A coma?  A C-O-M-A?  The thought is so ludicrous that I smile.  I’m having another lucid dream, aren’t I?  That’s it.  I wonder where this one will go, so I decide to humor the old bat.  “Co-ma?” I parrot.

She puts down the juice box and takes both my hands in hers.  “Yes, my dear.  Patients coming out of comas can have trouble distinguishing what is real and what isn’t, so I think I’d better tell you what happened.  For reasons best known to yourself, you decided to go out walking on your own through Regent’s Park late at night.  We think you were attacked – probably a mugger – and you decided to fight back instead of just handing over your wallet.  I guess he pushed you, and you hit your head on a lamp post as you went down.  Some students found you in a pool of your own blood just past York Bridge.  Fortunately, it doesn’t look like he… you know.  Interfered with you,” she finishes in a stage-whisper.

I go suddenly cold.  I don’t like this dream.  I’m going to wake up now.  I close my eyes determinedly and take a deep breath and count to ten.  When I open them, it’s to see her watching me with an indulging pity.

“No,” I state flatly.

“Yes, dear,” she corrects me quietly.  “Now, I know you’ve had a shock, but the sooner you start to face things, the sooner you’ll get better.  You were mugged; you suffered a traumatic brain injury; you were in a coma, and you are recovering at Mount Ida sanatorium.  I can promise you that you are in the best of hands.”  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small bottle.  “It’s time for you to take your pills.”

I turn my head away, “no,” and she sighs.  “Oh Maela, are we going to do this again?  The pills will help with the swelling.  You do want to relieve the pressure on your brain, don’t you?”

I peer at her suspiciously, keeping my mouth clamped shut.  I don’t know what the ever-loving fuck is going on, but I do know that I don’t believe her.  I wasn’t walking in Regent’s Park last night – I was at the Drapers’ Hall – and besides, I’ve only ever been to the park during the day.

She huffs: “If you won’t take the pills, then we’ll have to inject the medication.  Is that what you’d prefer?  I cannot in good conscience allow you to hurt yourself by refusing your meds.” 

Oh no she won’t!  I narrow my eyes to slits and decide it’s time to leave.  This whole charade has gone on long enough.  I push myself to a sitting position and jump to my feet–  Fuck!  Fu-u-u-u-u-ck!  Why aren’t I moving?  Oh my gods!  I’m paralyzed!  Paralyzed, paralyzed, paralyzed, paralyzed, paralyzed!  My hands flex on the coverlet, and my fingernails scrape against something hard.  What the f-u-u-u-u?

I don’t realize I’m wailing until the nurse calls out, “Matron!  MA-tron!  We have a situation in room 1C.”  Then, “Calm down, Maela!  Calm down!”  She grabs my hand again, trying to give it a pat, but I’m in no mood to be mollified.  I want fucking answers, and I want them now!

“What!  What!” I pant.

“Listen to me, Maela.  Take a deep breath and listen.  Can you do that?  Good girl.  Nice and deep.  OK.  Your leg somehow twisted under you when you fell – I’m not sure how you managed it – but you broke the bone.  Rather badly, I’m afraid.  It will need to be in a cast for a little longer, but the signs are encouraging.  Don’t worry, Maela.  You will walk again!”

My eyes are wild, and I’m squeezing her hand in a death grip.  I just…  I don’t…

I emit a sort of high-pitched squeak, like a mouse caught in a cat’s paws, and start to formulate… something, when the door opens, and Elizabeth walks in.  At that, I go rigid.  I can’t speak, can’t breathe, can only stare as she walks towards the bed.  “Maela,” she smiles.  “How good to see you awake!”

Like the nurse, Elizabeth is dressed all in white, only she’s wearing a sort of elaborate cap, her dark hair gathered neatly under it.  White dress, white hose, white, sensible shoes; against her alabaster skin, only those twinkling grey eyes seem to keep her from blending into the walls.  And what’s with the Lady Di impression? 

I’m trembling now, but whether from fear or anger I couldn’t say.  “You-u-u!” I hiss.  I feel like a cobra about to strike, and her smile fades to a frown as she looks from me to the nurse.

“I take it you’ve explained everything?” she inquires, coolly.

The nurse lowers her eyes.  “Yes, ma’am.” 

“And this is the reaction.  Oh dear,” Elizabeth sighs.  “Maela, dear, I know that this has come as a bit of a shock, but, as I’m sure Nurse has told you, you’re doing well, and I have every hope that you’ll make a complete recovery.  I want you to hold to that thought when you start to feel overwhelmed.  Can you do that for me?”  She smiles again, encouragingly, and folds her hands, a Madonna listening to a supplicant.

The things I want to say!  But I can’t get the words out; in their haste to exit, they’re piling up on one another, a log jam in my mouth, so I settle for scowling murderously at her.  My hands are tingling, and there’s a strange, burning sensation in my left foot.

Elizabeth pinches her mouth, her face taking on a forbidding mien, and turns to the nurse.  “Has Kailani Reed been sneaking in again?”  

The nurse looks frightened and stammers, “Yes, ma’am.  I’m so sorry.  We do try to keep her out, but… well, there was that problem with the orderly and–”

Elizabeth holds up her hand, cutting off the explanation.  “I understand, but now that Ms. Driscoll is awake, we really must ensure that she’s not bothered by Ms. Reed, at least not until our patient’s condition has stabilized.  Maela, dear,” Elizabeth says, turning back to me, “It appears as though we haven’t been taking as good a care of you as I would like.  Kailani Reed, another patient on this ward, has been paying you visits.  Now, Kailani is a delightful girl and has a kind heart.  No doubt she thought to keep you company.  But she is also an attention-seeking fantasist, and you, I’m afraid, have made the perfect captive audience.  Literally.  Patients in comas can, of course, hear, even if they can’t respond.  They are also highly susceptible, and Kailani likes to spin extravagant tales.  I can only imagine what she’s been whispering to you while you were defenseless.  No doubt she’ll deny everything – she suffers from multiple personality disorder and is even less in touch with reality than you’ve been.  Her delusions range from the grandiose to the mundane – I shouldn’t wonder if she claimed you two had been taking a stroll in the garden together every Sunday.  As if you could with your leg!  She means well, of course she does.  But you mustn’t listen to her.”

How easily she lies!  I’m almost impressed.  “‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the Spider to the Fly.  ‘Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy.’”  I’m not surprised we were all taken in by her.

“Fuck you… and the horse… you rode… in on,” I say, slowly and carefully, my powers of speech returning in one glorious if slightly garbled burst.

Elizabeth’s hand spasms, nails digging into her palm, before she pastes a martyred smile on her face.  Got you, I think.  You utter bitch!  Then I still.  Kailani!  Oh, fuck – what’s happened to her?

“Oh, Maela,” Elizabeth chides, voice heavy with disappointment.  “Kailani has been filling your head with nonsense, hasn’t she?  I know you don’t believe me, but Nurse and I are here to help!

Hah bloody hah!  I look at her with frost in my eyes.  “Let’s drop the pre-pretense, shall we?”  Each word feels as if I’m pushing it out through treacle, and I’m tired, so tired, but I persevere.  “We know, Eliz-beth!  We know… all.  Call Em-lyn… Seef… give up.  Keep… hos-tage won’t help.”  I let my head sink deeper into the pillow, my eyelids fluttering shut despite myself.

There’s a moment’s silence in the room, then, “Seef?  Emlyn?  I’m sorry, Maela, but I don’t know who they are,” Elizabeth says carefully.

I snort, keeping my eyes closed.  “It’s over.  Give up.”

“They are friends of yours?  Nurse, was there anything in the police report?  Did her parents say anything?”

My parents!  My eyelids spring open as the nurse murmurs, “No, ma’am.”

“Maman!  Daddy!  Don’t you touch–”

“Maela!  Calm yourself!”  Elizabeth’s bony hands push against my shoulders, forcing me to still.  “Your parents know what happened, and they’ll be so happy to hear you’re awake.  We’ll call them straight away.  They were here, just after the accident.  They came every day, you know, to sit with you and chat.  They told us all about you, when you were little, growing up in Haight-Ashbury – and, oh my, what a charming house! – going to school and then on to university and getting your doctorate.  They’re so proud of you, Maela!”

“Oh, yes!” the nurse chimes in.  “Your father said he always knew you’d become a teacher because you always had your nose in a book – you loved the classics – the Fairy Books and Five Children and It and The Secret Garden and–”

“Heidi and Pollyana and Anne of Green Gables,” Elizabeth adds, smiling.  “And he used to tell you Sherlock Holmes at bedtime, and you’d try to figure out the clues but ask so many questions that you wouldn’t go to sleep, so the two of you would get in trouble with your mother–”

“And then you went through a Gothic phase but scared yourself so badly after reading The Mummy’s Foot and The Monkey’s Paw and The Tell-Tale Heart that you couldn’t go to sleep–”

“And one night you were convinced that you saw a glowing, disembodied hand scuttling up the wall, and you thought it would strangle you in your sleep, and your poor mother didn’t know what was wrong for days, just that you fought going to bed and were tired and grumpy.”

I remember.  I must have been about eleven or twelve, and I’d lie awake under the covers for hours, listening to the house creak, convinced that every sigh it made was a specter waiting to slip into the bedroom.  I had nightmares when I did fall asleep.  To this day, I can’t look at the bathroom mirror if I haven’t turned the lights on, for fear of seeing the devil’s candle shining there. 

“And you cried when you couldn’t figure out an assignment and began to pick at your nails and – oh, yes, you developed a funny little ritual, didn’t you?  Didn’t you chant something when you sat down at your desk?  Your mother never knew what it was.”

Breathe; breathe; breathe.  And then I’d twine my foot around the chair leg.  Mind you, I don’t think it was all down to lack of sleep.  That just caused my quirks to manifest sooner.  They would have come out eventually.  Something’s always been a little wrong with the signals in my brain.  A lack of serotonin, maybe?  I’d think things, worrying things, and then have to nullify them.  Like, I love blood, and then I’d quickly add red apples.  You see?  Things would just pop into my head, and I didn’t know why.  And I’d try to make things right, to fix the problem; if I thought things, I could unthink them.  So, I’d sit down to do my homework and boom!  Out of nowhere, I’d hear, I’m not going to understand this, and then I’d quickly have to reassure myself, No, no, no – I will!  I will!  I will!  But all the while, in the back of my mind would be playing the thought, I don’t understand, I don’t understand, like a ghastly soundtrack, and I’d have to read the paragraph over and over and over, to make sure.  “What I tell you three times is true.”  My brain would just get stuck, a terrier with a bone between its teeth, and wouldn’t let go. 

“She even wondered if she should take you to see a specialist!  Mind you,” Elizabeth gives a delicate shudder, “Poe can still give me the creeps.”    

No one wants to be labeled as odd, do they?  I was horrified when Maman suggested, ever so gently, that I might want to talk to someone.  So I hid my strangeness deep, deep inside.  No more crying.  No more whispering under my breath.  Just smiles.  And if I took a little extra time with my work, that was OK.  I was studious, wasn’t I?  Diligent.  Conscientious.  A good girl.  And I escaped even further into my books, running from the ghouls inside my head.  The method worked, mostly.  I kept on top of things, and my fear subsided, my little foibles just a faint burble in the background, little mud pots in an otherwise placid landscape.

“And your father thought you might have an imaginary friend!”

I tried that, for a while.  I wanted an imaginary friend.  It sounded cool.  But it didn’t work.  Just like when I tried to find a way to Narnia in our attic.  Our house was so old, I reasoned, and stuffed with so many interesting things, surely there was a passageway somewhere.  I spent hours in the attic, patiently waiting to tumble out through the boxes and into Mr. Tumnus.  I was bitterly disappointed every time I had to come down for lunch.  And Daddy would muss up my hair, and Maman would make me bologna and American cheese on soft, white bread, even though she’d wrinkle her nose and shriek, “I am feeding you plastique!  Quelle horreur!  What would your grand-mozaire say?”   

Elizabeth chuckles and then sighs.  “We’ll have to be careful what we tell them about Maela’s condition.  We don’t want to cause Mr. Driscoll any extra stress just now.  And the news that Maela is… disoriented – although perfectly normal for patients recovering from comas –” here she pats my shoulder – “well, we don’t want to cause any complications.”

The nurse is nodding in agreement, “Oh, absolutely, ma’am.  Much better to wait until he’s on the mend.”

On the… on the mend?  What… what is wrong with Daddy?  And where… where is he?  Where’s Maman?  I don’t feel very well.  Where are my Maman and Daddy?  Elizabeth’s trying to upset me, isn’t she?  She and this… this nurse-person.

Elizabeth catches my worried look before I can school my face.  “Maela, dear, I need you to relax and take a deep breath.  Can you do that for me?  The first thing is that your mother and father are doing well.  And they stayed as long as they could.  But they had to return to San Francisco for your father’s operation.  Do you remember he was going in for some tests?  Well, the results weren’t quite what the doctors had hoped, so they’re just going to do some perfectly routine surgery and then he’ll be Right.  As.  Rain!” 

Daddy.  An operation.  But… I made that up.  Didn’t I?  I did!  I’m sure I did!

“Lie,” I growl, and I’m not quite sure which one of us I’m accusing.

Elizabeth looks at me sadly while the nurse tuts.  “Oh, Maela, I wish I were.  I hate to distress you with this news.  But you have to know why your parents aren’t here and why they won’t be able to visit now that you’ve come back to us.  They wanted to stay and put off the operation, of course they did.  But the doctors strongly advised that waiting would be risky.  And as you were in a coma… well,” she shrugs.  “And we mustn’t be selfish, must we?  I’m sure your mother will want to come straight over when she hears that you’re awake, but we mustn’t put her in that position.  Your father doesn’t have anyone else to look after him.” 

No, I… I mustn’t be selfish...  No, no!  She’s lying!  She LYING!

Elizabeth shakes her head sadly.  “I can see you don’t believe me.  Now, you mentioned some friends of yours – Emlyn and Seef?  I’m afraid that no one by those names has asked after you.  We did put out an appeal, after you were attacked, on the evening news, but no one came forward.  Do you have a phone number we could try?”

As if she doesn’t know!  I glower at her, and she lifts her hands, the picture of confusion.  Fine, if that’s the way she wants to play it…       

“Try MI5.”

Elizabeth’s forehead crinkles, “MI… MI5?”

Unbelievable!  “Or MI6,” I snark, as best I can.

The nurse titters, and Elizabeth shushes her.  “Oh, Maela!  Oh, my poor girl!  What has Kailani been saying to you?”

“That she’s a secret agent, too, that’s what I’d guess,” the nurse mutters.

“Is that it, Maela?  Is that what you think?” Elizabeth asks, her eyes searching mine.  “Yes, I can see it is.  Sweetheart, I need to be brutally honest with you.  Kailani is not a policewoman.  She does not have any special powers and does not work for a top-secret government task-force.  She has been here, at Mt. Ida, and under our care for the past several years.  You came to us last month, after suffering an assault which left you in a coma with a traumatic brain injury.  No one but your parents has come to visit you, although the dean of the English Faculty at Queen’s and all of your colleagues sent a card.  Look, there it is, on the bedside table.  You are not a secret agent or whatever nonsense Kailani has been telling you.  You are a postdoctoral fellow in English, writing a book on nineteenth-century Romantic poetry.  Really, dear, what use would that be to law enforcement?”

She manages to look both vexed and mildly amused, but I haven’t really taken anything in after the words “last month”.  Last month?  No, that can’t be!

My eyes betray what my stubborn mouth won’t.

“Yes, you’ve been with us for over two weeks now,” Elizabeth nods her head.  “It will soon be time for that cast to come off.  And then we’ll have to work at building your strength back up!”

I look down at my arms, noting how pale and weak they seem to be against the coverlet.  My left foot twitches restlessly, and my right foot wants to join in but remains inert inside the plaster.  Everything’s starting to feel a little foggy, and I shake my head irritably.

“Alright, Maela.  I know it’s a lot to take in.  Now, it’s time for your pills.  As Nurse will have told you, they will help bring down the swelling.  And then I think you might manage a spot of jelly.”

“It’s cherry today.  Won’t that be nice!” the nurse coos.  She sounds like Mary Poppins, telling me that a spoonful of sugar will make the medicine go down.

I want to argue, but my head is pounding.  If there’s any truth in what they’re telling me, then I’d be foolish not to take something that will help.  The better part of valor is discretion, and all that.  Besides, my mouth is feeling dry, and some more apple juice actually would be nice, as Nurse would say.  I nod, and she beams at me.  “Good girl.  OK, stick out your tongue.”

I look at her in disbelief, and she tuts again.  “You’re far too weak to hold them yet, poppet.  Come on, now.  Let’s take our pills!”

Bemused, and too tired to argue, I stick out my tongue, and she drops two tablets on it.  I grimace; they’re incredibly bitter, and I gulp gratefully at the juice when she holds the straw up.  All the while, Elizabeth looks on approvingly.

“There you are, Maela!  That wasn’t so bad, was it?  We’ll soon have you back on your feet in no time.  Now, I’m going to call your parents and tell them the good news.  They’ll be so happy.  And Nurse here will get you some jelly.  And then you can lie back and have a little rest.  We don’t want you to overdo things.”

Elizabeth glides towards the door, gesturing the nurse ahead, then pauses.  “You know, Maela.  You’re quite lucky.  Head injuries, well, they’re unpredictable.  I know everything is scary at the moment, and you don’t know what is up and what is down, but all will become clear in time.  The doctors, the nurses, we’re here to help you get better.  You’re in good hands, I promise. We’ll soon have you right as rain!”

I half-expect to hear the strains of Chim Chim Cher-ee and see a chorus of sweeps appear at door and window.  She’s really getting into the part, I think, and I’d clap if I could muster the energy.  I’m exhausted, and sleep is beckoning on the horizon, but I manage to call out, “Elizabeth?”

She cocks her head, smiling: “Yes, dear?”

“Don’t trip over… your forked tongue… on… the way out!”

◆◆◆

Jorge, Emlyn, Kavi, Seef.  I hold the names to my breast, like a talisman, even as dizziness roils through me.  I have got to hold on.  I have got to hold the fuck on.  Now, they’re not going to be coming in all guns blazing.  We’re in a hospital, and there are other patients to consider.  We can’t put them at risk.  I’m thinking the guys will opt for a quiet extraction, no muss, no fuss.  I’ll look up from my pudding, and there one of them will be, and he’ll help me up and help me get dressed and then we’ll get the fuck out of Dodge.  I mean, the hospital can’t very well keep me here against my will.  Elizabeth’s clearly spun the doctors a load of crock about how I was attacked and probably promised the place a large sum of money to care for “her good friend” and, yes, she’s worn a nursing uniform every time I’ve seen her and the other nurses have called her “matron”, but, well, maybe that’s a condition of the donation?  The English think Americans are a bit flaky, right?  I mean, yes, I must have suffered a head injury of some description, because I’ve seen the scans and, OK, well, Elizabeth probably slipped a porter some money to switch them with someone else’s.  I mean, OK.  I still suffer headaches, but… that’s probably stress and alcohol withdrawal.  I’ve been promising myself to cut back for months, and if you go cold turkey, that’s really bad, right?  And, well, alright, there’s my leg and everything, but… Elizabeth paid the doctors to put a cast on? 

I’ll be very brave when the guys come, of course.  They’ll be pulling up London by the paving stones to find me.  By my count it’s been about four, possibly five, or maybe… no, three days since I woke up, so…  How long did Elizabeth say I’d been here?  Not that I can believe anything she says, only, well, my mind may be playing tricks on me, but the sun does seem to be rising just a bit earlier every day.  I know.  I know, you see, because I’m awake before the dawn.  All night, actually.  I’m awake all night.  Aren’t I the lucky one!  Or maybe, maybe I’m dreaming about being awake and then I realize I’m dreaming and then I wake.  Or maybe, maybe I’m just nodding off, from time to time, without knowing it.  I could be getting sleep.  It’s possible.  Probable, even.  Indubitably, my dear Watson!  Yes, well.  The doctors need to calibrate my medicine.  It’s not an exact science.  And I really, really want the swelling to go down.

So, the guys are coming.  No ifs, no ands, no buts.  In fact… wait… are those… footsteps?  That’s a heavier tread, if I know my footfall, and all of the nurses are women.  Hah!  My heart gives a little leap, like a salmon in a stream, and I push myself up until I’m half-sitting, half-reclining, impatient and expectant.  The footsteps come closer and closer, and I bite my bottom lip and start to smile, because the guys.  Are.  Here.  Ta-raah!  I quickly smooth down my hair, foolishly wanting to look my best for them, and my hands start to tremble.  Forcing myself to take deep breaths, I wait, fragile with hope gossamer-thin and iridescent, feeling almost giddy.  I listen, my ears twitching – is that a man’s voice?  A low rumble?  Yes?  Yes!  The footsteps grow louder, intertwining with the frantic beats of my heart.  One… two… three, and my eyes fix on the door.  And then…

I slump back against the pillows, disappointment wormwood in my mouth, as the nurse wheels her trolley in.

“Lemon jelly today,” she trills.  “Won’t that be nice?  But first, time to take our pills!”  She presents them with a flourish, but I’m too miserable to respond.  Just a memory, then, just the whisper of a memory.  Not the guys.

“Come along, Maela!  The doctors want you to try a new medication.  We know you haven’t been reacting well to your previous pills; the new one will help to prevent blood clots and should be easier on your stomach.”  She shakes the bottle like a rattle. 

I need…  I need OUT of here.  I’ll just have to take my chances with blood clots until I can get to the guys.   “Nurse,” I whisper urgently.  “I don’t know what Elizabeth is paying you, but MI5 will pay you more.  I need you to get a message out for me.  OK?  Call Thames House and ask for Agent Emlyn Ryder and tell him where I am.  He’ll come get me.”  I struggle back up to sitting, my arms weak, and prepare to slide to the floor.  I’ve gotten used to the weight of the cast, even if I do move awkwardly.

The nurse looks alarmed.  “Maela.  Maela!  You’re not at all well enough to move.  Lie back down!”  She stands by the side of the bed, grabbing me around the waist as I try to scramble out.

“I am checking myself out!  Let me go.  Let me go!”

“Maela, you’re risking an aneurysm!  And for what?  There is no Emlyn Ryder.  You never worked for MI5.  This is all a figment of your imagination!”  She stands like a sentinel by the bed, actually raising her arms to take up more space.

I shake a lock of hair out of my face, wincing when the sharp movement causes a twinge in my neck.  The pain seems to migrate on a daily basis.

“I don’t have time to try to convince you!”  I peer around her, scared that at any moment Elizabeth will sail through the door, although I haven’t seen her since I woke.  “If you won’t call MI5, then call me a taxi.  The guys will pay for it when we get to the house, since you say you don’t know where my purse is.”

“I am certainly not calling you a taxi!”  She looks outraged at the thought, and for a moment I feel consumed with pure hate.

“Fine!” I snap.  “I’ll call one myself!  Where’s the phone?”  I look wildly around the room.  It’s pretty spartan, just the bed and a table, no phone, no television, not even a book.

“Oh, no you won’t.”  The nurse folds her meaty arms.  “You are going to take your medicine like a good girl and then have a little rest.”

Rest?  Rest?  That’s all I do!  And yet, I’m still fucking exhausted all the time!  I can feel myself spiraling out of control and take a few deep breaths to calm down.  Acting out isn’t going to help.  I need to take charge and present a logical argument.

“Nurse,” I smile wanly.  “I know you’re trying to help, but the best place for me to recover is at home.  You and the doctors have taken exem-exemplary care of me.  But there are patients who need your skills more. So.  I am going home.  The guys will take care of me.”  The little speech saps what’s left of my energy, but I’m determined.

“Maela,” the nurse heaves a sigh.  “There are… no… guys!  Must we go through this every time?  I know how much it distresses you.  As soon as you are well enough, we will speak with your parents about a long-term plan of care.”

“Yes.  There.  Are!” I bite out.  My head is now spinning, and even I am getting a little bit queasy at the thought of a stroke.  I take another deep breath through my nostrils and let it out slowly.  “Emlyn works for MI5; Seef works for MI6; Jorge and Kavi do too.  They didn’t before, but now they do.  I can’t tell you any more.”

“Maela,” the nurse looks sympathetic.  “These delusions are all symptoms of the damage you suffered.  The technical name is confabulations.  Your brain is trying to make sense of things.  I understand that, but you need to face reality.  Everything that you think happened was just a dream, a wonderful, healing dream.”

“And yet, I remember everything.  I saw things.  I heard things.  I smelled and tasted and touched!  Explain that!”  My heartbeat’s rising again, and I put a hand to my stomach.

“Lucid dreams are common in coma patients.  As I said, your brain’s way of making sense of things.”

“And so, what?  I went from being an English postgrad to working for MI5?  That doesn’t sound very plausible.”  I feel perilously close to tears.

“Actually,” she smiles, “It does.  Dreaming about becoming a secret agent makes perfect sense.  I would say that that was your brain’s way of channeling your anger and fear at the attack, your need for vengeance, a show of strength after your security was violated.”

“And–” I hesitate.  What has Elizabeth told her?

“Your superpower?” she asks drily.  “What was it again?  Oh, yes, you can see things in real time from a distance, in your head.  Hmm.  Again, your need to protect yourself, to prove yourself.  You were a researcher, someone accustomed to seeking out knowledge, things left undiscovered or forgotten.  According to your dean, you were under a lot of stress.  From what he has told us, you may even have been suffering from undiagnosed clinical anxiety.  I would say, Maela dear, that you suffered from low self-esteem and harbored a hidden fear that you just weren’t good enough, that a mistake had been made in giving you the fellowship.  Imposter syndrome is quite common in perfectionists, you know.  Totally understandable, then, that your brain would dream up extra-sensory abilities.”

Translation: I overtaxed my brain and would have gone crazy on my own.  But, I’m not crazy!  No.  No.  I did not dream the past several months.  I did not!

The nurse shakes her head.  “I can see I’m not getting through to you.  What will it take, Maela?  What will it take for you to accept that your so-called memories are false?  You don’t mean to deceive.  Of course you don’t.  You suffered a catastrophic injury.  But nothing you dreamed was real.” 

Not real?  Emlyn, Jorge, Kavi, and Seef not real?  Just the thought makes a knife-blade of pain flicker through me, and I catch my breath and gasp.  

“Which is more likely, Maela?” she prods.  “That an English major was recruited by MI5 and mysteriously ended up in the hospital, or that you went out for a walk, were mugged and battered, and are now convalescing.”    

“Elizabeth kidnapped me from the ball,” I whisper, and the nurse’s face tightens with anger and disdain.

“Maela,” she says, an edge to her voice, “I have tried to be patient with you.  But now you are spouting nonsense.  Matron has been with us for months.  She took over when the previous matron retired and is an extremely experienced healthcare professional.  In fact, she is responsible not only for this hospital but for two other facilities.  And are you saying, what?  That every single member of staff is lying to you?  That we are all somehow colluding to keep you here?  To care for you?  Maela, you are a smart girl.  Think!  Occam’s razor.”

“The simplest explanation is usually correct,” I mumble, sick with despair but still unwilling to accept what she’s telling me.

She nods: “Exactly.  I am very sorry I didn’t manage to keep Kailani Reed away.  The last thing a patient in a coma needs is to listen to stories told to her by a woman who is mentally ill.  We’ve seen Kailani’s journals, and if she whispered the half of what she’s written, I don’t wonder that you’re confused.  Now, will you please take your medicine?  I don’t like your color.  You don’t have any pains, do you?  Shortness of breath?”

“A little,” I confess, suddenly frightened.

“Then we need to get this medicine into you without any further delays.  A blood clot could kill you.  There you go…  Good.  And finish the entire glass.  We need to keep you hydrated.  Now, anything else?  Any nose bleeds?  Blurred vision?  Constipation?  Problems urinating?”

I squirm, shaking my head.

“Hold out your arm.”  She wraps the cuff round my upper arm and squeezes the bulb.  “Hmm, a little low but still within the acceptable range.  Now, you have a little rest, and I’ll be back to check on you in a few hours.” 

I settle back into the pillows, weary now to my core.  “Nurse?”

“Yes, Maela,” she turns.

“Could you bring me something to read?  There’s nothing to do.”

Her face softens.  “We need you to concentrate on getting better, but I’ll see what we have in the library.  Perhaps The Wind in the Willows.  Won’t that be nice?”

Keys to the Castle

Kailani

I once read a poem called “A Loss of Memory”.  I was working on a sad case – a young kid had been abandoned with her grandmother.  The mom had died in childbirth; the dad had turned to drugs and disappeared on the streets.  The little girl was okay for a while, but the grandmother had Alzheimer’s and was a chalk drawing in a rainstorm, the lines blurring and fading until there was nothing left.  It was no one’s fault, and we got to the girl in time to make sure she was taken care of.  I remember Deo quoted this little piece of a poem, under his breath, like he knew what it felt like to watch a loved one fade away in front of you.  

“You are frightened,” he’d whispered, “when you first realize something is gone, when the strings that hold now to then are snapped, leaving you somewhere above ground with nowhere to land, nothing to hold onto.”

I’d hunted down that quote, because it was clearly important to him, and found a poem about keys and the lines on your palm, about looking out a window, and feeling gravity in your shoulders.  But the line that stayed with me the most, the one that plays over and over in my head these days, is the final one.  The one which reads, “... life all comes down to this.  It’s not what you have known, but what you have forgotten.”  

My days are all the same.  It is hard to believe, at this point, that they have ever been anything but what they are.  Blank, empty walls; blank, empty brain; blank, empty hours filled with nothing but space and oxygen, and endless, endless pills.  Sometimes, though, not often, but sometimes, like today, I wake up with one thin string still connecting me to my former life.  One string that they haven’t seen, or forgot to cut, that hasn’t snapped yet.  And it stitches the shattered pieces of my mind together in a loose pattern – there is not much there to form a shape, but enough that shadows of my memories reappear on the walls of my skull.  These are the days that cause trouble.

I’m not even out of bed when a nurse I haven’t seen in a while glides in, soft feet, soft hands, soft smile.  “Hello, Kailani!” she says, pitching her voice to a gentle, caring tone.  It’s a wasted effort though.

“Not worth it today, Elizabeth,” I answer back shortly, waving my hand vaguely over my head.  “I’m all here.  Well, mostly all.  Somewhat, anyways.”  I crack myself up.  You’re all cracks, my mind whispers insidiously.  Why add more?

A half-frown creases her face.  “I’m not sure I understand, Kai…” she begins, voice still sweet and concerned, and I roll my eyes.

“I mean, you do you, but don’t feel you have to perform for me.  Unless–” I gasp theatrically, “are you auditioning for a show?  Going for an Oscar?  People’s Choice Award for Most Manipulative Bitch?  You’d win hands down.  You have my vote!”

The attentive thoughtfulness drops from her face like a curtain, and she sighs, narrowing her eyes.  “Really, Kailani.  I must say, you’re proving to be far more difficult than anticipated.”

“I live to serve,” I snark back, and she pauses, cocking her head consideringly at my words.    

“You do live to serve.  A fact which seems to be escaping you somehow at the moment.  I’m quite happy to remind you though.  You, my dear, are a tremendously valuable research project.  A little scientific wonder, whose blood and brain could provide so many answers.  If we could just get you to cooperate.”

“Yeah, good luck, Chuck.  I’ve had a lifetime of practice not cooperating.  It’s kind of my specialty.  Fortress of Solitude and all that.”  I find myself hilarious on the days when I remember who I am.  It makes me too confident, and words slip past my lips like little silver fish darting from the shadows in the river.  Loose lips sink ships, I think inanely.  I forget – even when I’m here, I’m never all here.  Not anymore.  I was a full-color portrait, then a sketch, and now just a line drawing.  Soon enough, I’ll just be a vague outline, then shapes, and then…

Elizabeth hasn’t moved, clearly thinking something through, and I groan to myself.  Oh Kai, you talk too much!  Why haven’t you learned to keep your mouth shut by now?

“You are a fortress.  Aren’t you…  With little treasure rooms you refuse to open up to me, hoarding your jewels like a dragon.”  It’s not a question; it’s a glimmer of possibility, of excitement.  “And one can’t just breach a fortress’s walls… no.  They have to be torn down.  Or… or you have to infiltrate them, break them apart from the inside out.”  I’ve made a drastic mistake, but I can’t figure out how or where.  She’s almost glowing now, clasping her hands together in front of her in a quiet clap.  “Yes… yes.  We’ve been going about it all wrong with you.  A frontal assault would never work with you, not really.  Your shields are too strong.  We have to Trojan Horse.  Good girl, Kailani.  Good girl.”

She moves forward, all caring and kindness again, which scares me more than anything.  She’s only supposed to be like that when I’m not myself, when I think that their lies are truth, but to have her be gentle with me now…  It’s sending shivers down my spine.  Sitting next to me on the bed, she takes my hands and examines them, turning them over in her own.  I don’t have the energy to move or yank them away – whatever they have been giving me has made me weak.

“I do wish you’d cooperate, though.  We were building quite a rapport, dare I say a friendship?”  Looking up, she locks eyes with me, tilting her head in a birdlike motion.  “While I admit to some missteps, I’m not the bad guy, Kailani, as easy as that would make things for you.  I do significantly more good in the world than harm, despite what you may think.  I donate more to charity each year than Bill Gates.  Did you know that?  Our medical division supplied more vaccines to third-world countries than UNICEF.  We’re currently working on a low-cost insulin alternative and have had very promising results for less than $10 a month.  $10!  And we have no plans to increase the price.  Insulin in the United States is currently upwards of $300 without insurance.  Do you honestly think any of these things happen without drug trials?  Small concessions for the greater good are necessary.  It’s the Trolley Problem, really.  Do I hit one person to avoid the larger group?  Our world is a shambles.  And to build it back, sacrifices must be made.”  She sighs.  Her voice is low, surprisingly bothered.  “Can’t you see that I’m trying for something more?  Something better than what exists now?  Corporations running our health care, gifted people being drugged and told they’re insane, children encouraged to grow into factory models of human beings.  This can’t be what you want, Kailani.  Honestly.  The good we can do is immeasurable.”  Standing, she turns from me, pacing at the foot of my bed, hands clasped behind her back.

She’d be a hell of a lot more believable if she didn’t have me medicated to my eyeballs and locked in a sterile room, while shoving false memories into my fragmenting brain.  I roll my eyes.  “You can’t be serious with this Mother Theresa shit.  You traffic women.  Traffic them.  Experiment on their unwilling bodies.  Have killed hundreds, if not thousands of them, and for what?”

Her eyes narrow, jaw tight.  “You are mistaken on so many levels, and I am beginning to wonder if it’s worth the time or bother to correct you.  ‘Traffic’ is a harsh word.  So is ‘unwilling’.  All of our participants sign waivers.  Voluntarily sign, might I add.  We are very clear in the terms of our agreements, including the potential risks…  They are given a place to live, a place to sleep, food… and they agree to participate in medical research trials.  Really, Kailani.  You’re being purposefully stubborn.  Human testing exists all throughout the United States and Europe, and I don’t see you marching in the streets to protest the latest vaccine or seasonal shot.  This is getting tiresome.  Hypocrisy is an ugly trait, even in the best of us.”

“You kill people, Elizabeth.  What’s your workaround on that?”

She shrugs.  “You can’t be so naive as to believe no one has ever died in US medical testing.  I’m happy to give you the facts and figures, though they do their best to cover them up.  When making omelets…  I don’t mean to be uncaring, though I’m sure it comes across that way.  I simply have a clinical brain.  And the needs of the many outweigh the comfort of the few.”

“Why only women?”  My mind is a flat stone, skipping across the water, jumping from thought to thought.  The question has been bothering me, nagging at the back of my head since we started this whole thing, and, even now, brain foggy and vision waving, I need to know.

She smiles, real delight clear on her face.  “Do you know, I’m so glad you asked that!  No one ever asks me about my research methodology.  This is why I like you.  You always surprise me.”  Perching on the edge of my bed, she leans forward, eager to explain.  “All zygotes are inherently female.  Did you know that?  If you are of the belief that life starts at conception, then all human life begins female.  After six, seven weeks, the expression of a gene on the Y chromosome induces change, but prior to that, it’s XX all day.”  

Moments like this make it hard to remember what is real and what is fantasy.  These times – when she’s talking to me like we’re friends, as though she doesn’t have me kidnapped and drugged, as though she can convince me that her path makes some kind of sense – they fray the few strings I have left that connect me to myself.

“Historically, women of childbearing age have been discouraged from participating in medical trials – there are so many reasons given for this, but we can look at things like… oh… take thalidomide as a cautionary tale.  This has resulted in underrepresentation of women – especially women 18–45, give or take – in clinical trials.  Do you know the FDA didn’t even allow women to participate in clinical trials from 1977 to 1993?  Not one.”  She snorts, the most unladylike thing I’ve ever seen her do, and shakes her head.  “There wasn’t a single woman in the original research group for breast cancer.  Breast cancer.”  

I’m trying to listen, but a thin needle of pain explodes in the center of my eyes as she’s speaking, and it silences the world around me.  Little worms with hooked barbs wiggle through my cornea, burrowing deeper, deeper, until I hear them tap-tap-tapping at my brain.  I shudder, but Elizabeth chats merrily on, lost in the passion for her subject.  

“Across the boards, looking at all diseases, women are diagnosed on average 2.4 years later than men.  Years, Kailani.  That’s just the average.  It climbs to 4.5 years for things such as diabetes, 6 years for ADHD…  Combining the lack of representation, the delay in diagnosis, the inherent misunderstanding of female anatomy and genetic makeup… that women grow children…  Even the previous idea that children share their parents’ genes 50/50 is outdated… organelles, you know, mitochondria… only from your mother…”

I’m drifting in and out, the effort it takes to focus almost too much for me, and I know I’m missing key sentences, words, phrases.  I just cannot get my mind to latch onto anything.   Her face is pulsing in rhythm with the – suddenly – very loud beats of my heart, and the worms scratching at my brain, and she cocks her head, studying me carefully, before making a minor adjustment to the drip attached to my arm.  The world rushes back in a whir of sound and color for one bright moment, before fading again, making me nauseous.  Waves of consciousness, I think blearily.  Deo wouldn’t like this boat ride.  I’m not floating.  Sinking, sinking.  Where are you?  Oh, where are you?  I’m not sure Elizabeth notices, and I do my best to merge all three of her into one person.

“As I was saying, there’s clinical evidence that women both perceive others’ emotions more easily and are better at recognizing their own… priming paradigms… facial expressions and… gender… automatic processing level…  So if we can create a system whereby medicine affects XX chromosomes in development to prevent known… genetic mutations in utero.  For our Psychic Science purposes, we need more emotionally available subjects to test our…  Can you imagine if we just had men?  And historically, most verifiable… of empaths, and second sight… traditionally women.  The few… Rasputin, Nostradamus, of course, but even the Oracle at Delphi… woman of course.  Are you even listening, Kailani?”

“As it turns out,” I mumble, “being drugged to my teeth makes it hard to concentrate on crazy.”  

She sighs, shaking her head, and checks my drip again.  “Wouldn’t it be nicer if you could just give me a chance to explain things?  Without bristling and fighting me from the get-go?  We could be teammates, Kailani.  Friends, even.  I need so little from you and could give you so much in return.  I don’t actually want to remake you.”  Frowning, her lips tighten in a thin line.  “It’s wasted effort when, for the most part, I really like you as you are.  So much so, in fact, that if you cooperate, I’m willing to let you keep things I’d otherwise feel obligated to take.  A signing bonus, if you will.  And together we could make the world a little bit better than it was before.  For everyone.  It didn’t have to be like this.” 

“It absolutely had to be like this,” I try to snap back, though the words are muddy.  “The version of me you want doesn’t exist.”

There is a long pause, and then, “Yet.”  

The word is sad but set in stone.

“What?”

“Yet.  The version of you I want doesn’t exist yet.  Such a simple word, just three little letters, but so powerful, no?”  She sighs again, then stands reluctantly and smooths my blanket over me with gentle hands, tucking me in like a mother.  Looking down at me thoughtfully for a long moment, she smooths a piece of hair behind my ear.  When she finally speaks, her voice is soft, the sharp edges gone, and she sounds truly regretful.  “I’ll tell you a secret, because I know you won’t remember.  When you have been stripped bare of everything that mattered to you, when all your walls have been torn down, and I flood you with emotion until you’re so overwhelmed that you can’t make it through the day without the assistance of me and my medical team, it will be because you gave me the keys to the castle.  I would have gotten there eventually – I always do.  But you’re your own worst enemy, Kailani.  No one can do more harm to you than you’ve done to yourself.”  

Straightening up, she smirks, an unfamiliar expression on her face, and it makes my blood run cold, all of the melancholy from moments before gone.  “Well, amend that.  I will definitely do more harm to you than you’ve done to yourself, but it was your choice in the end.  Fighting against me will be useless – it will all reach the same outcome either way.  It’s just one path is lined with silk, and one with screams.  You’ve made a poor decision.”  Dropping my hands, she stands and corrects her white outfit, smoothing it down.  “At least I’ll be able to stop wearing this ridiculous get up.”  Walking to the door, she is about to leave, then pauses.  “There’s still time to change your mind, Kai.  But once we start down the road, there’s no turning back.  You’re in for a rather uncomfortable journey.”

“At least I’ll be able to live with myself.”  I force the words from my tight throat.  

She laughs, a warm, amused sound, and I choke on a wave of inexplicable fear.  “I’m sorry,” she says, amusement still bright in her voice.  “That wasn’t kind of me.  But the thought of you being able to live with yourself…  There won’t be any of your self left to care.  Enjoy today, dear.  There won’t be many like it left.”

Learning to be a Good Girl

Maela

Well, this is a cluster-fuck of awful.  I slam my left foot down into the mattress and hurl my book at the wall.  Sacrilege, but I feel like I’m going to climb out of my skin; I bet, if I scratched myself, I’d just spill out, flesh raw and quivering in the chill of the room.  All fucked now, I croon, Maela, you’re allll fucked now!  I giggle, reveling in the obscenity.  Yes, sir, fuckety fucked!  And Why?  Because the incompetent, twat-faced dildos who run this place don’t know their arse from their elbow, that’s why!  The new pill is not helping.  Quite the contrary, actually.  I lower, brows drawing together.  Not only can’t I sleep at night, I’m wide awake during the day!  Yippee kippee kay fucking yeah!  Aargh!  I hurl myself irritably into the pillows, heart racing.  Maela, you need to rest, I mouth the words.  Take a little rest, Maela.  You’re looking peaky.  Just have a nice nap.  Uh, hello?  Trying, you fucknuts!  My face suddenly crumples, all amusement draining out of me.  Where are they?  Where are they?  Surely, they should have found me by now, if they… if they…  No, I can’t even entertain that thought.  I didn’t make them up.  I didn’t!

Why can’t I sleep?  God, this is like being in middle school again, when I was having trouble in math class.  My breath hitches.  Oh, Seef, I think sadly, you pillock.  It’s math, not maths.  I’d lie awake, equations inscribed on the backs of my eyelids, scrolling through as if on a ticker tape.  Nightmare.  You’d think it would have sent me to sleep, but, nope.  I don’t know how long the insomnia lasted.  A week, maybe?  Two?  But now, now…  And I don’t want any more fucking Jello, alright?  I start to cry, fat tears gathering in the corners of my eyes and spilling down my cheeks.  Maybe I should just smother myself and have done with it.  I could just stop breathing, and then all the pain would be over.  But how?  If I bury my head in the pillows, will that work?  But how would I keep holding myself down after I pass out?  No… no!  I can’t do that.  What would my parents think?  At the thought of them having to identify my corpse, I shatter, gulping, sobbing, choking myself on my grief.  I’m sorry, Maman!  I’m sorry, Daddy!  I didn’t mean it!  I wouldn’t!  I promise I wouldn’t!  Soon, snot is running over my top lip and dropping to my chin to mingle with my tears.  Ew!  Ewww!  I’m so gross.  I’m so fucking gross and useless.  No wonder the guys haven’t come.  I swipe at my eyes, trying to get hold of myself, but I’m gasping, mouth opening and closing as if I’m trying to sip the air.  In some detached, clinical portion of my mind, I realize that I’m seriously close to hyperventilating, and I force myself to remember Kavi’s lessons.  Ong Namo, I warble, my voice thin and reedy.  Guru Dev Namo.  I can feel myself beginning to calm, and then I remember Kavi, his dancing green eyes, his mischievous grin, the delicate shell of his ears, and I break apart all over again.  I don’t know how long I lie there.  Enough to feel fatigue steal through to every crack and crevice of my bones.  But sleep doesn’t come.       

◆◆◆

White noise.  Grey days.  The hushed black of turgid hours sliding slowly by.  Time for your medicine, Maela!  Tick tock goes the clock.  A pair of thick-lashed hazel eyes winks merrily at me as callused fingers coax wonder from nylon strings and cypress wood.  I’ve felt those fingers on my inner thighs, seen those eyes flame to liquid gold.  One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four.  Eat your vegetables, Maela.  The world swims before me through a pane of broadsheet glass, opaque and seeded with bubbles.  I stretch out my hand, wiggling my fingers.  What a piece of work is Maela!  How ignoble in reason, how finite in faculties, in form and unmoving how in-express and unadmirable, in inaction how not like an angel, in apprehension how like a slug!  Nom, nom, nom!  You’re a smart girl, Maela.  The figures move before me, rippling.  And how are we today?  Dry mouth?  Lightheadedness?  How’s your tummy?  Oh dear, I hope we haven’t wet the bed.  Hmm, no, just night sweats, is it?  I lie silently, steeped in rage.  At myself?  At the doctors?  At the guys, for making me believe?  Con-fabu-LA-tions, Professor Higg-ins!  The world tilts on its axis, threatening to tip me into the void, but I hang grimly on, dangling above the abyss.  No one has come, Maela.  No one has come.  

◆◆◆

I am a good girl.  I eat my vegetables and brush my teeth and floss – twice a day.  I am a good girl.  All the nurses say so.  I make the bed and keep my things tidy and wash my hands and braid my hair and smile.  Oh, how I smile.  Yes, Nurse, and no, Nurse; if you please and thank you.  The days are long and endless, one merging seamlessly into the other, a finely worked tapestry of inanity, padding the walls of my cell.  Every so often, a fold of the fabric will ripple in a careless draft.  The other day, a patient dropped a tray at breakfast, and all of the orderlies came running to smother him in kindness.  Poor man.  Everyone was staring, but I had to look away.  And last week, they accidentally served me coffee at breakfast.  I only had time for a sip, before they realized their mistake, but, oh how I reveled in the taste!  And the nights.  The nights are the time for mundane horrors.  I lie in bed, waiting, and can’t bear the stillness.  The chill of cotton sheets, damp against my skin.  The cloying pine of cheap disinfectant.  The acrid taste of uncoated pills mingling with spearmint toothpaste.  The hush.  The nothingness.  I lie awake and watch the darkness bloom against the wall.  Darkness has a form and texture and color, if you know how to look.  Here a stand of belladonna, and there a patch of cyclamen.  Yarrow swaying with columbine.  A purple-robed hyacinth in a field of black anemones.  I lie, and I lie.  The night is alive with memories, false and true.  I watch as a glowing hand scuttles up the paint to strangle a moonbeam.

Once upon a time, there was a girl.  Just an ordinary girl, really, though she liked to think she was smart and brave and pretty.  Who wouldn’t?  She grew up in an ordinary house, in an ordinary neighborhood, with a mother and a father who loved her.  No pets, sadly, but she couldn’t complain.  She went to school and worked hard, and when she grew up, she went to school some more, because she didn’t really know what else to do.  So there she was, reading and writing, surrounded by her musty old books, happily pottering amid the dust motes, when one day she won a prize.  The prize was a trip far, far across the sea to the land of her dreams.  A chance for adventure!  To see the world!  So of course she went.  Who wouldn’t?  And she was very happy, if a little lonely, there in the new land, surrounded by new books, amid new dust motes, in a wonderful old, red tower.  Now, here is where the story gets fuzzy.  Some say she met four handsome knights, and together they set off to capture a dragon who’d been terrorizing the inhabitants of that land, picking off helpless maidens under the cover of darkness.  And some say, no, being a fanciful girl, she went a little crazy when she suffered a knock to the head.  Most unfortunate.  And she now lives in a new tower, with doctors and nurses to care for her.  Being a smart girl, she knows that the mind is a wondrous thing, a wellspring of infinite possibilities, yet delicate, so delicate.  Trained to use logic, she knows that the simplest explanation is usually the correct one.  If something looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it’s probably a duck.  Not an eagle, no matter that both birds have feathers.        

I am a good girl.  I take my medicine without complaint, twice a day, and I write in my journal, just as I’ve been told.   Matron insisted: “After all, Maela, if we don’t know how your brain responded to the injury, how can we make you better?”  So I write.  But not of the lost time, the time of wine and song.  Not of a man with oak-brown hair and a voice of the purest silver.  Of snow-leopard eyes and a wicked, wicked tongue.  Maddening, teasing, playful, affectionate.  The quirk of a brow and the warmth of a sudden smile.  I can’t do that, no matter how many times they urge me.  I don’t want to revisit the ghosts of what might have been.  What was; what isn’t; what was; what will never be.  So I write of then, of San Francisco, Queen’s College, and Coleridge, and of now, of Mount Ida, raspberry jelly, and room 1c.  “Of shoes – and ships – and sealing-wax / of cabbages and kings.”  It’s all very funny, really.  My life is a tune played to a metronome.  Tick, tick, tick.  Each day a facsimile of the one before.  I could simply cut and paste, if I had a computer.  But I write because I am a good girl.  And I hold my screams deep, deep inside, where even I can’t hear them.  

Alaskan Wood Frog

Kailani

“I’ve decided to give you a gift, Kailani.”  

It’s been three, maybe four days since I’ve seen Elizabeth?  I think, anyway.  It’s difficult to tell the passage of time in windowless rooms with nothing but white walls and empty bookshelves.  Time lurches so oddly here that it could have been hours or it could have been months.  There aren’t even ceiling tiles to count.  This is a place that could drive you crazy.  This is a place that could drive you crazy.  My mind echoes itself, like two different people having a chat.  Things up there haven’t been very… dependable lately.  

“Let’s take a little walk, shall we?”  She motions behind her, and two orderlies move into the small room and lift me from the bed, into a wheelchair.  Their hands feel like sandpaper after so long with no human contact.  Why is their breathing so loud?  Do people always breathe this loudly?  I want to yell at them to shut the hell up, but I want, even more, to get the fuck out of this room, so I stay silent.  For once.  Maybe you’re learning finally.    

Elizabeth is unusually quiet as she wheels me through empty halls, down corridors where I have never explored.  

“How big is this place?”  My words echo, unexpectedly loud off the barren walls.  Or not.  The voice in my mind sighs.  It’s frustrated with me today.

“Big enough,” she replies easily, a smile in her words.  “We’re starting something new today with you.  It’s really quite exciting.”

“I think we have different ideas of what’s exciting,” I murmur, but my tongue feels thick in my mouth, and I’m not sure she understands.

“I was sincere about the gift, Kailani.”

Don’t look a chicken in the mouth.  Is that right?  Or is it – don’t count your gift horse before it’s hatched?  No, that can’t be correct.  Either way, not really interested in a present at the moment.

“Come back to me now, Kai.  Don’t wander off so far.”

I haven’t wandered anywhere but where she’s taken me, which appears to be a large doctor’s office, with a paper-covered table in the middle.  The same orderlies that moved me to my wheelchair repeat the motions in reverse, laying my unresisting body on the table, fastening my wrists and ankles in tight restraints.  Fuck a duck.  Nothing good comes from being restrained.  Briefly my mind flashes to a completely inappropriate scene with two men, faces vague.  I can’t quite access the details, but it’s enough to know that maybe all restraints aren’t bad.  Is it a memory?  Or a piece of a wish that got lost in this dreamless, colorless world?  Whatever and wherever it is, it’s better than what’s happening in this now, so I try to chase it down but am interrupted by an unexpected question.

Elizabeth’s voice is deceptively casual.  “Have you ever heard of the Alaskan Wood Frog?”

Something in her tone sends chills down my spine.  I don’t know who the fuck the Alaskan Wood Frog is, or what it does, but whatever she’s leading to doesn’t mean good things for me.  That I know.

“It’s really a remarkable creature.  Truly remarkable…” her voice warms with scientific delight, almost admiration for what I assume is a stupid fucking toad who’s about to cause me a world of hurt.  Against my better judgment, my wrists start flexing in their restraints, and I have to fight myself to stay calm.  Showing any sort of response or upset always changes the course of the conversation, but I’m not sure what the safe play here is, so I choose to stay silent, just watching her through level eyes.  

Rolling a tray over towards me, she starts opening sterile packages, and it takes everything in me to not look at the instruments out of the corner of my eye.  The flashing of metal has me fighting to keep my breathing even, and my right eye twitches.  It hasn’t been normal since… well, not for a while.  

“Ah.  Here we are,” she murmurs to herself, bending over and finding… something… under the little table.  “Anyway, as I was saying, Kailani.  The Alaskan Wood Frog.  Every autumn, in September or so, all the wood frogs in Alaska do a very unique thing.  They freeze.  Almost completely, in fact.  Two-thirds of their body turns to ice.  No blood flow, no cell communication.”  She pauses and moves into focus directly in front of me.  “No heartbeat.  They are, for all intents and purposes, dead.  Imagine that.  On an organismal level, completely dead.  And then, come spring, they thaw and pop!”  Elizabeth claps her hands together loudly, and I jerk against my restraints.  She smiles, a thin, satisfied smile.  “Back to life again.  Think of the implications!  Of course, there are so many other factors.  Highly elevated glucose levels, a series of freezes and thaws before the deep freeze… all sorts of external and internal gymnastics.  But, yes.”

Tapping the tube in her hand with a nail, she watches bubbles drift to the top of the syringe with an almost dreamy expression.  “I wonder how you would tolerate the cold, Kailani.”

I must make some sort of sound, though I try to swallow it, and Elizabeth’s eyes narrow into sharp focus, straight back to the business at hand.

“Now then.  Have you ever read any Seneca?”  I clench my jaw but nod reluctantly, having learned that not answering too many times in a row is often much worse than keeping quiet, and she laughs a little.  “You and your internet education.  Always surprising me.”  She frowns mockingly, brow wrinkled in a parody of apology.  “Seneca once said, ‘We are more often frightened than hurt; and we suffer more from imagination than reality.’”  Her voice is almost cheerful as she continues, cleaning my upper arm with precision and care, tying a rubber cord around it and searching for a vein.  “Make a fist please.  No?  Why am I not surprised?  Anyway, I’m usually in Seneca’s corner, I must say.  ‘Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity’ and all that.  But I’m afraid, in this specific instance, that Seneca is very wrong unfortunately.”  She plunges the needle unerringly into my skin, and ribbons of fire immediately unfurl from the injection site, snakes of pain with venomous fangs slithering along my skin, slow and steady.  Elizabeth leans forward and locks eyes with my suddenly wild gaze, whites showing all around the blacks, like a panicked horse.  “I’m afraid,” she repeats, clearly fighting a smile, “in this case, you will definitely be more hurt than frightened, and your suffering will be very real indeed.”

Stepping back, she checks her watch and nods in apparent satisfaction.  “What have you always wanted, Kailani?”  I can’t answer her through short, panting breaths.  She loosens the band she’d wrapped around my arm, carefully places a Band-Aid over the pinprick of blood with obscene precision.  “What is the greatest gift someone could give you, hmmm?  You have wanted to be normal.  To not feel so much.  Understandable, really.  And I want to give you that gift.  To make your life more bearable.  So I will take those emotions away.  All of them.  I will hunt them down, one by one, until you will be left with only what I give you.  Everything that connects you to yourself…”  Her voice trails off, and then, an earnest vow, “I will help you.  You will finally, finally be alone in your head and heart.”  She is so kind, so gentle, a lover or a best friend.  But my skin is ripping in waves like the ocean, and her smile is all teeth and terror.  “To get there… well.  That road will be a little bumpy, I’m sorry to say.  But nothing ventured, nothing gained and all that.”  There is a long pause before she speaks again.  I can barely hear her over the sound of my teeth grinding to dust against each other.  “I am going to be careful, I promise you.  Like a fisherman with a net, hmmm?  Throwing back what I don’t need.  I’ll leave the structure there.  But all those little thoughts, darting around just below the surface?  I’ll capture them all.  Every.  Single.  One.”

Leaning over me, Elizabeth shines a little, laser-bright light in my eyes, drilling dentist holes into my pupils, and I can feel my secrets drip-drip-dripping out of my melting irises.  “You think I can’t see them,” she whispers against my ear.  “You think I won’t be able to take them from you.  But you can’t keep them from me.  Hmmm?  Every time you think their names, I will know, and I will pull them from you by the roots.  Not as a punishment, Kailani.  Please know that.  But if you hold onto them, you will always be tied to this world.  And you’re made for so much more.”

The electric pain makes it impossible to shield, to lock them away, deep, deep where she’ll never find them.  When I try grabbing them, they slip away from me – to my fingertips, my toes, the curve of my lips, the shell of my ear.  Come back, I cry, come back and hide.  She’ll find you; she’ll find you.  But their names dance like stardust in my mind, always my first thought, always my sunrise.  I am desperate to secret them away, but they shatter into pieces when I call them.  Oh please, oh gods, please don’t leave.  Please don’t leave me.  And suddenly I’m a little girl again, sitting next to a flowered suitcase on a little bench outside a police station, watching everyone I love in the world drive away.  We’ll be back, we’ll be back, they call, but no one ever comes back, do they?  If they were coming, they would have been here already.  They would have found me by now.  No one ever stays, Kailani.  No one ever stays for Kailani.       

The squeaking sound of Elizabeth wheeling the little cart away pulls me back to myself. She returns to check my pulse and hums in approval.  I don’t know what she’s so happy about; my heart is clawing its way from my chest with each beat, as though it’s covered in razored knives that slice my skin.  The growing pain and panic mix in a paralyzing cocktail of fear so deep it sinks into permanence, through to the marrow of my bones.  Elizabeth perches lightly on the edge of my chair.  “You have my word that someone will be back in thirty minutes or so, once this has run its course.  For us, however, this unfortunately is good-bye.  We won’t be seeing each other for a bit.  I confess, I will miss you.”  There’s a pause, and she gently pats my cheek.  “Please don’t hold what’s to come against me, Kailani.  I’m hoping, at the end of it all, you’ll be more… amenable… to the possibility of friendship.  That perhaps, when you have no one left but me, maybe my little gift will be appreciated at the end of the day.  Everyone else will lie to you and leave you, but I… I know how valuable you are.  And I don’t mind the work it will take to mine the diamond.”  She checks her watch again and offers an exaggerated grimace of sympathy.  “Oh dear.  Time for me to go, I’m afraid.  I am sorry to leave you on your own, but the screaming can be quite off putting.”

And with that, she turns and leaves me alone, as my blood turns against me and scalds the veins under my quivering skin.  As it turns out, Elizabeth is correct.  The screaming is very off putting.

Hospital Corners

Maela

I yawn, feeling as if my head will split from the motion, then quickly cover my mouth.  A lady doesn’t show her tonsils!  My eyes are watering – they always do when I yawn, I don’t know why – so I give them a little swipe with the backs of my hands before returning to my task.

“No muss, no mess, no muddle, clear head,” I chant silently.  I sweep my hand over the sheet, smoothing it just so, a tug here, a tuck there, before stepping back and assessing my work.  Hmm.  I give another little tug and nod: the perfect hospital corner.  Nice and crisp.

“Crisp, crisp, crisp,” I murmur.  Now to the bedside table, a white, Formica cube with thin, pinewood legs.  They jut out at an angle, as if the table’s stopped mid-walk, an impression I find vaguely unsettling.  Oh dear, oh dear.  The lamp is out of alignment.  It’s a squat, impersonal thing, the sort you might see in any hotel, a square, light-beige lampshade on a square, nickel column rising from a square, nickel base.  I know I checked that the angle of the lamp matched up with the angle of the table before getting into bed last night, but the corners aren’t matching up now.  Well, this won’t do.  This won’t do at all.  No, no, no!  No wonder I couldn’t sleep!  I look down to see my hands are trembling and take a deep breath: calm, calm.  I mustn’t get upset.  OK.  OK.  Not a big deal.  I turn the base of the lamp fifteen degrees: long side parallel to long side, short side parallel to short.  “No muss, no mess, no muddle, clear head.”

And now for the rug.  I cock my head, staring at the café au lait color, just a shade darker than the one in Em–  No.  No, no, no.  I mustn’t allow myself to go there.  Now, is the rug straight?

The door open behinds me, and I turn to see one of the nurses.  This one’s thin as a reed, with dyed black hair scraped back behind an angular face, and, like the others, is dressed in a starched white dress, white hat, white hose, and white shoes.  I stand to attention, as I’ve been taught.

“Good morning, Maela,” she chirps in an overly bright voice.  “And how are we today?”

“Fine, thank you.  I’m just tidying up my things.”

“Wonderful!  Good girl,” she praises me.  Then her smile falters.  “Oh dear,” she murmurs, in an echo of my earlier thought.  “Oh, Maela, we talked about this.  I thought you were paying attention.  You were just pretending, weren’t you?  Being a naughty little girl, away with the fairies, while I was trying to help. 

“No, nurse,” I assure her.  I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong, but I always pay attention.  Mostly.  It’s just that, sometimes, I have trouble concentrating.

“No one likes a liar, Maela,” she tells me, not unkindly, advancing on the bed.  “Look at these corners.”

I look, suddenly worried. 

“If a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing well, yes?”

I nod.

“And have you done the corners well?”

“Yeeees?” I waver.

Her face darkens.  “What did I just tell you?”

“If a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing well?”

“Before that.”

I think.  “No one… no one likes a… a…”  I can’t face the word, and my voice drops, along with my shoulders.

“A liar,” she finishes.  “Now, do you think you’ve done the corners well?”

I look at the bed again, biting my lip.  They don’t look as crisp as they did before.

“No, nurse,” I concede, hanging my head in shame.

She yanks up the sheet, making me wince in a strange sort of panic.  “Now,” she commands, “pay attention.”  I watch as she tucks the sheet into the foot of the bed, noting how she lifts a fall of fabric, the edge at a 45-degree angle to the corner of the mattress, then tucks and tucks again, forming a nice, sharp crease.

“Now you try,” she nods at me, and I move to the other side of the bed.  Hesitantly, I pull and fold and smooth, trying to emulate her movements, then look up.  Her face is dark with disapproval, and my heart plummets.

“Oh, Maela,” she sighs, disappointment heavy in her tone, “Is that really the best you can do?”  She pauses, frowning, then shakes her head.  “But I’m being unfair, aren’t I?  You can’t help being… well.  We just have to accept that things will take a little longer than they used to.  All right, try again.”

It takes me two more goes before she tells me that the corners “will do”.  I could cry: just over a month ago, I was the recipient of a prestigious fellowship at a top London university, a postdoctoral researcher writing her first book, the author of eight published articles in peer-reviewed journals, and now I can’t even make the bed right.

The nurse catches my expression and pats my shoulder.  “Don’t fret, dear.  I’m sure you’re doing your best.  Now, how did you sleep last night?  Any more strange dreams?”

“I couldn’t fall asleep.  I tried, but I felt… jittery.  I couldn’t stay still.”

“That’s a common side effect of the medication. It should go away as your body adjusts.  Anything else?”

I start to yawn, quickly covering my mouth.  “My heart started racing in the middle of the night.  Oh, and then I started panting.  It was really weird, like I couldn’t draw a proper breath.”

“Hmm, we may need to adjust your dosage.  Any nosebleeds?”

I shake my head.

“Cough?  Blurred vision?”

“N–no,” I stammer.

“Let me know if that changes.  Alright, let’s check your balance.  Lift your right leg…”

I feel a sharp pang as I remember Kavi.  The first time I tried to do the full tree pose, I wobbled no end, but he was so kind and patient with me, although he did joke that I looked more like a windmill than a willow.  And I stuck out my tongue at him, and he asked if I was trying to catch flies, so I sniffed and rolled my tongue for good measure, goggling my eyes at him.  And he tried and couldn’t do it, but I told him that the idea that some people could and some people couldn’t roll their tongues was just a myth and that anyone could learn it with practice.  And he said, “just like tree pose,” and I said, “touché,” and–   

“Something amusing, Maela?”  The nurse’s voice brings me back to reality, and my face falls.  “Sorry,” I offer reflexively.

“And now your left,” she replies.  “You need to work on your attitude, Maela.  You do want to get better, don’t you?  How can we help you if you won’t concentrate?”

“Sorry,” I whisper again.

“And if you won’t look after yourself,” she continues.  “I know you were bed bound, Maela, but you didn’t forget how to use a bar of soap while you were convalescing, did you?

“N–no.”  I feel myself flush red.

“Leg down.  Or perhaps you enjoyed being waited on hand and foot, like a princess.”

Princess.  My heart gives another little stutter.

“Now that you’re up and about, Maela, we expect you to keep yourself clean.  Mens sana in corpore sano.  A healthy mind in a healthy body.” 

“Yes, nurse,” I say tonelessly.  “I’ll do better.”

“You can hardly do worse.  Look at the state of you!  You’re a mucky little puppy, aren’t you?”  She’s smiling at me now, and I don’t know how to respond.  “Alright, Maela, you’re favoring your left side, but that’s to be expected.  Fetch a glass of water, now.  It’s time for your medicine.” 

My shoulders droop, and I cast my eyes to the floor, blinking, while she watches me indulgently.  I wish she’d leave the medicine for me, but I guess they don’t trust me to take it.

“I suppose I really can’t blame you,” the nurse concedes.  “You were in a bad way when you came to us.  A complete vegetable.  We had to do everything for you.  And then, when you woke up!  Couldn’t tell left from right and completely delusional.  Still, at least your fantasies were amusing.  We’ve had three Queen Elizabeths here, and it gets a bit old after a while.  A secret agent’s much more interesting.”

Nodding numbly, I gesture towards the bathroom.  When I return, clutching the plastic cup of water, she holds out a small, white tablet.  I grimace, but I know it’s for my own good, so I quickly pick it up and gulp it down.  A couple of days ago, a tablet got stuck at the back of my throat, and I still remember gagging on it.  The taste only went away with a cup of ginger and honey tea.

“Good girl.  OK, say ‘ah’.”

I open my mouth and stick out my tongue.

“Uh huh.  Alright, it’s time for art class.  Wash your hands and fix your hair, and then you can join the other patients in the rec room.  And I’ll speak to Dr. Beaufort about your medication.”

After she leaves, I slump down on the bed.  Stupid Maela.  Stupid, willful Maela who just had to wander through a park at night and came home a vegetable.  A vegetable!  A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I have to lie down.  And now I can’t even wash myself properly.  But I can do better.  If I can just get some sleep, I can do better.  “No muss, no mess, no muddle, clear head,” I whisper to the ceiling.

Bar Fight

Jorge

The blow rocks my head to one side.  Mierda!  I didn’t see that one coming.  It’s going to leave an ugly bruise.  I flex my jaw experimentally while circling the ugly bruto in front of me.  The tendon clicks, but I shrug.  I won’t leave myself open like that again.  Lesson learned.  The big bastard stretches his neck and grins, showing a gap where a tooth should be.  He looks like one of those pumpkins Americans like to carve for the Day of the Witches.  Maela was so cross this year when we wouldn’t let her go out to look for decorations.  But por Díos!  She’d just been kidnapped.  We wanted to keep her safe.

And now she’s been taken again.  And it’s all my fault.  I should never have left her alone, not for a second.  Kavi was right.  What sort of man leaves the woman he l– cares for defenseless, just because his shoes have got wet?  A dumbass, that’s who.  A selfish donkey.  It’s my fault.  And whatever she’s suffering, whatever is happening to her now, tengo la culpa. 

“You gonna stand there dancin’ about on your feet all day, Georgie-boy?” the bastard chuckles.  “Whad d’ya think, lads?”  A few of the men standing at the bar shake their heads and scoff at me over their pints.  “Come on, Nancy Spain!” one yells.

“Get fucked by a fish!” I mutter.  I won’t be rushed.  I continue to circle, looking for a weak spot, waiting for the cabrón to drop his guard.

He pivots; he’s no fool.  “Georgie, Porgie, pudding pie,” he sings.  “Kissed the girls and made them cry.  That it, Georgie?  You kissed a girl, and she didn’t want you no more?  Pretty boy like you?  That bloody awful, are ye?”  He clicks his tongue.  “Don’t feel bad, boyo!  Dan there says she wasn’t that good in the sack anyway.  Isn’t that right, Danny?”

I hiss as one of the men jeers, grabbing his crotch.  His friends laugh and slap him on the back, and I ache to punch him, but I keep my eyes fixed on the real threat.

“Yes, you’ve had a lucky escape, I’d say.  Danny and Steve and Rod down at the Chippie.  A regular town bicycle that girl–”  He grunts as my fist connects with his stomach.  Bastard was so busy enjoying the sound of his own voice, he didn’t notice me moving in.  “Fuck!” he exclaims, blocking my next strike.  He’s bigger than I am – what do the English say?  Oh yes, built like a brick shit-house.  And all muscle.  A better fighter, but that’s why I’m here.  He pushes me back, snorting.  “Calm down, Georgie Porgie!  She’s generous, is all.  Lusty.  Likes a good helping of cock!  On her hands and knees.  Spit roasted.”

I think of Maela and see red.  She could be… right now, she could be…  And this bastard laughs!  My punches are landing.  He didn’t expect me to retaliate so quickly, and I’ve caught him off guard.  I hit him in the arm, right over the radial nerve, and his hand spasms.  “Fuck!” he growls again, and I get him in the ribs.  I’m smiling now, and I move in closer to deliver an elbow strike.  I’m aiming for his chin, to shut his filthy mouth.  I’ll snap his teeth together so hard they’ll shatter.  He’ll be eating soup the rest of his life.  He falls back, dodging the blow, but I follow him.

“Calm down, Jorge!”  He’s moved into a defensive crouch, left hand angled up to protect his face.  But I won’t; I can’t.  “Calm down!  I was just messin’ wi’ ye.”

I don’t care; he’ll pay for what he’s said.  I whip the edge of one hand towards his nose and claw the fingers of the other, ready to rip his testicles from his body and stuff them down his throat.  But my anger has made me careless, and he surges forward, driving his shoulder into my stomach.  I stumble back, raising my fist to strike down between his shoulder blades.  I’m too slow, and now his shin’s catching the side of my knee and I’m falling forward as my leg crumples.   

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing as I kneel, bracing myself on my fingertips.  Then a hand comes into my line of sight.  “Get up, ye mad bastard.”

I haul myself up, still breathing raggedly.  A trickle of blood runs into my eye from a cut I don’t remember getting.

“You need to learn to keep hold of your emotions.”  He scowls at me, and I could almost laugh at the irony.  I’ve spent a lifetime controlling my emotions, helping others to control theirs.  I’ve been the calm one, the voice of reason, the counselor.  And look how well that’s turned out.  When she needed me, I wasn’t there.  And even if I had been, what would I have done?  Talked them to death?       

“Beer?” Finn asks, and I nod.  He holds two fingers up to the bartender, then turns back to me.  “Brains win over brawn, nine times out of ten.  You let me get inside your head.  Taking you down was easy.”

I give him a heavy stare, but he persists.  “I mean it.  You should know better by now.  Any idiot can learn the techniques.  It’s applying them that counts.  The man who can keep a cool head is the one who wins in a fight.  And you, my friend, are a hot-blooded Latin type.”   

I make the English “OK” sign to tell him he’s an asshole, and he laughs.  I’ve used that one before.  But he’s right.  I’m no good to Maela if I can’t think through my anger, my guilt, my shame.  The regret that burns me alive and drips acid through my veins. 

The bartender calls out to Finn, and I hold up a hand.  “I’ll get these.”  I limp slightly as I move towards the bar – Finn’s shin is as hard as his head – and the one called Danny laughs.  “Nancy-boy,” he sniggers.  Without stopping, I jab at his throat with the web of my hand, pulling back slightly so as not to crush his windpipe.  He gags, eyes streaming, and gasps for air, while his friends look on uneasily.  One makes as if to get up, but I turn a hard stare on him, and he sinks back in his chair.  “Prick,” he mutters.  I shrug; does he really think I care?

Finn shakes his head at me when I bring the drinks back to the small, round table he’s chosen, but he lifts his glass.  “Cheers.”

“Salud.”  I drink deeply.  The beer is light and refreshing, and I’m thirsty after our impromptu sparring session.

“So it was a woman, then?” Finn asks.

I look at him quizzically.

“The reason you want to learn to fight.  My way.  Street rules.  No rules.”

I smile lazily at him, wincing as the movement pulls my skin.  Joder!  I bet it’s already turning purple.  “What else?” I say nonchalantly.

“And you want to, what… prove something to her, show her you’re a man, break her out of prison?”  He guffaws, and I smile again. He’s closer than he knows.  My Maela might as well be in prison.  Kronos has her locked up tight, somewhere, somehow. 

For three weeks, none of us slept.  We searched obsessively.  I’ll never forget the moment I realized she was gone.  I’d followed Fallon to the bathroom, feet squelching in my shoes, not wanting to leave Maela but embarrassed by the stares of the other guests.  I’d tried not to let my annoyance show, but inwardly I was cursing the server for her clumsiness.  A full tray of champagne!  Dropped right down my front!  I’d been as quick as I could, mopping at my clothes with a towel, rinsing the blood off my hand.  The cut from the broken glass was deep but clean, and I’d hastily slapped a bandage on it before going to the Beadle’s Office to look for Maela and Kai.  The door had been open, the lights off, and I’d wandered inside to find the room empty, feeling instantly uneasy but wondering, like a fool, if perhaps they’d gone back to the Livery Hall to join the others.  I’d poked my head into the Wardens’ Room, the garden, then headed up the stairs and through the Court Room to the Hall, hoping that I’d soon see Maela and be able to breathe again.  And when I’d found Emlyn, standing by the bar and scanning the guests, watching who was talking with Elizabeth and the other Gaia execs, he’d tensed, and his eyes had gone cold.  We’d checked with Kavi, then Seef, and when I couldn’t see a woman with an impish smile and a crown of fiery hair, my stomach had twisted with fear, though I tried not to show it.  But when we’d run into Maddox, from the American team, and he’d said that Kailani was also missing…  I knew, I knew as we searched through the rooms, too full of too many people, talking too loudly, merry with drink, and I prayed to a god that I didn’t believe in, I knew that my Maela was gone. 

By that point, we’d been desperate enough to ask Elizabeth.  Oh, she’d looked suitably alarmed, made all the right noises, called security, made a plea to the gathering, but I could sense the slick satisfaction rolling off her in waves as the other guests gossiped and twittered.  I’d wanted to choke the answers out of her then, wrap my fingers round that slender neck and squeeze until her eyes had bulged and she’d given up her secrets, but I couldn’t, could I?  Not in front of witnesses.

We had to watch as she put on a show for the cameras, appealing to the public at large for any information on “her good friends Maela Driscoll and Kailani Reed”, believed to have been abducted from the Gaia Foundation Fundraiser at the Drapers’ Hall on 15 December.  Watch as pictures of Maela and Kailani flashed up on the screen.  Watch as Elizabeth read out a statement from Maela’s parents, begging their daughter to get in touch.  Watch as Elizabeth offered a reward for information leading to the safe return of the very women she’d taken from us.  Even through the screen I could sense her amusement; the trembling voice and misted eyes couldn’t hide her delight at having bested us. 

After a week and a half, the rumors had started to appear in the tabloids.  Sources “close to the victims” suggested that they weren’t who they appeared to be on the surface; that drug involvement was suspected; that they hadn’t been abducted at all but had run away, to escape the police, no, a deal gone wrong; that they’d been seen on a beach in the south of France, no, somewhere in Canada.  After another week, the press had lost interest and moved on to the latest Hollywood scandal.  Two women in their twenties had disappeared, perhaps voluntarily.  Not much of a story.  At least MI5 managed to keep our names out of the papers; I don’t think I could have coped with reporters asking me “how I was feeling”.  And if they’d found out that three of us were seeing Maela?  They would have dragged her name through the mud, even more than they already had.   

Emlyn was like a man possessed.  I think he came back to the house only to shower.  Seef, for the most part, kept himself to himself, a brooding, unseen presence.  And Kavi?  The light went out of him, leaving anger and anguish in its place.  At times, I could almost choke on the emotions.  They saturated the air, a bitter cocktail of rage, helplessness, and dread.  And blame.  Blame with a dash of contempt.  Oh, Emlyn and Seef made an effort to hide their feelings; Kavi didn’t bother.  And I drank deep.

I met Finn here, one night when I couldn’t stand myself a minute more and took to the streets to try to find oblivion.  The bar looked suitably anonymous, and I came in and ordered a bottle of cheap brandy, for me and the other borrachos.  Mustn’t drink alone.  Finn was serving that night, and we got to talking.  He was good company.  Came to London from Dublin by way of H.M.P. Hindley, a category C.  Finn was a bad man made good, who’d turned his life around and was now a law-abiding taxpayer and proud owner of the bar.  A hole-in-the-wall establishment off a no-name street in Brixton, four peeling walls around a sticky floor and metal tables, but who am I to judge?  At two in the morning, well into a lock-down, he offered me a job.  Why, I don’t know.  Perhaps he sensed my deep self-loathing, thought he could keep me from becoming as crazy as a goat.  Perhaps I just looked mean.  So I accepted a job as a bouncer-cum-handyman and the spare room behind the bar.  I moved out of the house in Chelsea the next afternoon, cleared out my stuff and left a letter of resignation from MI5 on the breakfast table.  I wasn’t doing a brilliant job anyway.  Me, read suspects?  I couldn’t even pick up anything from Fallon, when in hindsight she probably told the server to drop the tray on me.  Some empath I am.         

Finn rolls a spliff and offers it to me.  I take a deep drag, letting the acrid air fill my lungs.  “Puta!  That’s strong!”  

Finn laughs as I hand the joint back to him.  “You looked like you needed it.”

“I did,” I agree, feeling the weight lift off my shoulders.  I must have been mad to give this up.  My abuela is a wonderful woman, but she was wrong about cannabis.  It takes the edge off, soothes the clamoring voices, quiets the soul.

“So, where’d you go today, then,” Finn asks.  “On your magical mystery tour of London?”

I stick my middle finger up at him.  Finn knows that I don’t sleep well, that I’m restless.  He knows I go out walking when I tire of wrestling with my demons, when the worry reaches a relentless crescendo and the guilt threatens to drown me.  He doesn’t know why, of course.  I tell him I suffer from insomnia.  A truth of sorts.  The early hours of the morning, those endless moments before the dawn, are the worst.  There’s a reason, in times of war, why deserters and spies were shot then.  The darkness weakens men’s defenses, forces them to a tame acceptance of their fate.  A sort of lassitude overwhelms you, holds you immobile while all your sins parade before you, every bad thing you’ve ever done, your failures, your regrets, your mistakes, while the devil chants in your ear.  You’re nothing, a freak, a loser.  Poor little sensitive boy, with your little guitar and your feelings.  Pobre pusilánime!  What good are you?  I have to struggle then, curse myself to move, get out of bed, out of the house, out of my head.  And so I walk through the streets and watch as the city awakens.  And I go to the soup kitchens, to hand out food and listen.  I can do that at least.  And I walk with the outreach group, to pass out parcels to the homeless and needy.  I’d like to say I volunteer because I care.  But I do it because I’m selfish.  I’m looking for information, here among society’s dregs, here where Gaia likes to hunt.  Someone, somewhere, must have seen something, heard something, maybe they didn’t even realize what.  If I search carefully, if I watch and listen, I will discover a clue; I’m sure of it.  And then I will find my Maela.

I’ve got to be prepared, though.  She needs a man who can fight for her.  So Finn’s training me, street fighting, prison style, no holds barred. Climbing, yoga, they’ve kept me in shape at least.  And Finn says I’m learning quickly.  He calls me “Young Grasshopper”, just to fuck me off, and the first time he hit me in the solar plexus, and I dropped to my knees, he laughed and said, “First learn stand, then learn fly”.  I think he likes the fact that he can kick my ass, though he’s twice my age.  But I’m determined.  Motivado.  In the afternoons, before the bar opens, he’ll spar with me.  Says it keeps his hand in.  And then I practice on my own.  I’ve got a punching bag in my room, and I like to pretend it’s Elizabeth.  Who says you can’t hit a woman?  Evil doesn’t just wear a man’s face.  They say Madam Mao was worse than her husband.  And once I’ve tracked Maela down, got her to safety, I’m going to pay Elizabeth a visit.  I’ll go to her fancy London home and slip in through a window.  And I’ll hide in a closet and wait until she falls asleep.  And then I’ll wake her up and break her neck and watch as the life leaves her twitching corpse. 

I am my father’s son.

Art Class

Maela

The paper swims before me, its rough weave rippling, and I look at the charcoal doubtfully.  I didn’t like to draw… before.  I don’t see why I would now.

“Go on, Maela,” the teacher coaxes.  “Art can be very therapeutic.  Just sketch what you feel.”  Her smile is a warm blanket wrapping me up on a winter’s day, and I give a tremulous little nod and pick up the pencil.  I hesitate, not wanting to mar the untouched beauty of the humble surface, then dip my hand.  A line appears, another and another.  I cock my head and purse my lips.  Sketch what I feel.  What on earth does that mean?  Sketch what I feel.  I wait, expectantly, as if willing the pencil to move in answer, but it just lies there.  Frustrated, I bite my lip and try again.  Lines, lines, lines, slithering across the page like a nest of eels.

“Miss,” I call out, raising my hand.  “I can’t do this.  I don’t know what to draw.  What should I draw?”

“What do you feel?” she asks encouragingly.  She smiles at another patient.  “Very good, Martin!”  The young man, tousle-headed and face as innocent as a child’s, beams up at her.  He’s brain damaged too, like me.  Only he had an accident – hit by a careless driver while cycling to work – and I went out walking alone at night.

Hollow, I feel hollow, my spirit so many looming caverns and echoing tunnels.  But somewhere, lurking deep within, a piercing sense of loss.  It scuttles, moving soundlessly, and I feel its claws prick my heart.  I pick up the charcoal again.  Broad sweeps this time, back and forth across the once pristine canvass.  Dark, dark.  A whirlwind.  And tears falling like ash from a widowed sky.  I continue, almost feral now, taking a morbid pleasure in the pain, stabbing vengefully at the paper.  It tears.

“Maela!  Maela, that’s enough!”  The teacher has come running and places a restraining hand on my shoulder.  I pay her no heed, shrugging irritably and swiping out with the pencil, satisfied when it leaves a dirty great smudge across the table.  Lines, lines, lines, spiraling out and closing in, all around me, like the walls of this room, entombing me.  My breath comes faster.

“Maela!”  Hands shaking me again, pulling me back.  I growl.  “No!  No, no, no!”  If they stop me now, I won’t be able to find myself again.  I’m there, in the paper.  Art is therapeutic.  I will draw my self back.  And then I can go home.

“Maela!”  More hands.  Touching me.  I yank myself forward and start to rock.  Why?  Why, why, why?  Nothing makes sense.  Before, I was alive, though I walked among the shades.  Now…  Now, I am awake and a beggar without a coat.  I rock back and forth, faster and faster, and slam my fists into the sides of my head.  I want to go back.  I want to go back!

“Emlyn,” I moan.  “Seef.  Jorge.  Kavi.  Where are you?  Where are you?  Why haven’t you come?  I can’t get out on my own.  I’ve tried.  I’ve tried!”

“Maela, calm down!”  The sound of running feet, a door opening and closing.  “She’s hysterical.  Hold her.”  Something grabs me, forcing me to still, pressing me down into the table, into the hard plastic of the chair.  I can feel my shirt-sleeve bunch and slide against my arm, baring my skin to the air.  Then the sharp bite of an adder’s kiss, pumping its venom deep into my veins.  I hiss out a breath, trying to slap the creature away, to crawl across the tiles, but soon my limbs grow heavy, and I cease to struggle.  I am spent and now want only to sleep.  “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!  I’m a good girl!  I promise!” I wail.  A gentle voice murmurs, “We know.  Rest.  It’s not your fault.  You’ve suffered a trauma.”  And I slip away into oblivion.

◆◆◆

The eddies are lit by dancing lights, drawing me to the surface.  Pretty, so pretty, as they dip and bow and do-si-do, but they give no warmth, and I shiver.  

“Thought… getting somewhere,” a voice murmurs.  “Need to… dose.”

“... doctor… been told?” another voice asks.

I float, listening, the words becoming clearer as I rise.  

“We’re close.  She’s highly susceptible to begin with.  You know the type – spends all her time in her head, playing with ideas, entertaining theories.  She might be analytical, but that’ll work against her; she’ll weigh up all the evidence and come to the right conclusion.  Or should I say the wrong conclusion?”  A soft chuckle.  “We’ll have her sorted soon enough.  The doctor’ll see to that, or Matron will know why.”  

“What’s so special about this one?”

“The lucky bitch has telesthesia.”

“No!”

“Mmm-hmm.  Born with the right neurological circuitry, apparently, and responded as hoped to the medication.  She’s off the charts, Phos says.  One in a thousand.  Maybe one in five thousand.  I volunteered, and the only thing I got out of it was a pleasant trip.  Doesn’t know which side her bread’s buttered on.  They wanted to work with her, but oh no!  Madam here was too good for that.  The opportunity of a lifetime, and she turns up her nose.”

Lying amid the shoals, the seashells cool against my back, I frown.  The voice is all wrong.  It should be asking if I want a nice lemon jelly.

“She didn’t!”

“Oh, yes!  Her and that other one.”

“The one Matron’s taken a particular interest in?”

“Kailani Reed.  An emotional barometer.  Just think what a gift that would be!  Knowing what someone’s feeling, whether or not they’re lying, if they’re nervous, angry, confused, complacent.  Can you imagine having that advantage in a negotiation?  And this one.”  I feel a hard poke in my side.  “Able to see distant events in real time.”

“That would have come in handy in my divorce proceedings!  I’m still convinced my ex had another account, but the lawyers couldn’t find anything.”

“Phos was salivating at the chance to finally get those scans, I can tell you.  He’s already refining the formulae.  But if the silly cows had cooperated earlier, who knows how much further ahead he’d be?” 

“What’s wrong with them?  Don’t they understand what she’s trying to achieve?  Just imagine!  If we could refine the neural pathways, create new connections between the thalamus and the cerebral cortex, we could evolve, truly evolve, for the first time in thousands of years.  It would be like moving from Australopithecus to Homo erectus.”

“What I wouldn’t give to be in their place!  I could write my name on a Nobel Prize.”

“Our time will come.  The science is remarkable.  In the meantime, they want a blank slate, so we’ll make sure she’s wiped clean.” 

Another snigger, footsteps, then the voices fade away on the wind.

I lie motionless a long while, simply existing, until one wave breaks over me, then another, slapping me into consciousness.  Opening my eyes, I see the ceiling has gone grey with dusk.  I blink.  I’m back in my room, on the narrow bed with its thin coverlet, my head a bag of sand.  Something… a Nobel Prize… No.  Evolution.  Something about evolution.  And cows.  I try to concentrate, to chase down the memories, but they slip away, leaving me fretful as I face the night.

Hold on Cole

Walker

The kid’s been really off today.  I mean, honestly, Shotridge has been off since December – something cracked open in him the day Kai went missing, and it’s been getting wider ever since.  He hides it as well as he can, but Baird and I have been exchanging looks over the top of his head for the last month.  I know we’re both more than a little worried about him, but there’s not much we can do right now.  The kid doesn’t smile anymore though.  

I know he blames himself.  None of us do.  We all carry some heaviness on our shoulders – even Lachlainn.  But Shotridge, it’s not on his shoulders.  It’s in his bones.  That night fucked him up, and the aftermath has been worse.  

I’ve run through it a hundred thousand times in my head.  Maybe a million.  I knew she was hurting – we all knew she was hurting.  She shouldn’t have kept going.  Her eyes were falling out of her skull when she walked toward that last room.  I think I moved towards her, Christ, did I move towards her?  Did she know I was worried about her?  Or did she think I was fine with sending her off to the wolves by herself.  No.  She knew.  She knew I was anxious, because she made a cute fucking face for just a flash of a second, just for me, crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out.  And I dropped the ball for just a moment, just a half of a moment, smiling back.  And then she was somehow on the other side of the rope from Shotridge.  I wasn’t worried about it, not at first.  He was handling it, laughing with the bouncer, talking back and forth.  But then his smile went away, his shoulders tightened up, and then… the next bit plays over and fucking over again in my mind.  Kai stepped toward him, hand outstretched.  That fucking kills me.  She was reaching out, and Shotridge lifted his hand in return, and they were that fucking close to everything being okay.  And then, out of nowhere, a crowd of drunken assholes pushed past Shotridge and through Kai, and she was gone.  

I won’t tell any of the guys – they don’t need to know – but I saw her face, before she was swallowed by the chaos around her, and there was panic in her eyes, clear as day, like a drowning woman.  She knew she was in trouble.  Madds and I were there in seconds, already arguing with the bouncer before we were in front of him.  He said he couldn’t let us through without Cole’s approval, and we were about half a breath from causing a scene and just knocking him the fuck out when that Fallon chick appeared and got into it with him.  Said we were Cole’s special guests, we were clear on all the lists, and made him let us through.  Start to finish it took maybe three minutes.  Three minutes.  That’s it.  

Madds kept telling us to breathe, that there was only one way in and one way out, that it would all be okay.  We flipped on the lights the second we got through the doors, the mood lighting disappearing instantly under fluorescent bulbs.  All the masques and shit looked silly as hell once the lights were on.  There were maybe forty, fifty people in the smoky room.  A bar in the corner serving top shelf liquor, a few couches, some high tables for drinks.  No other doors.  No windows.  No skylights.   And no Kai.  

I feel sick, thinking about it.  My stomach roils, an echo of that night… the growing panic as we pulled off masques, sent checked people to one side of the room, called over an ice-cold Hideo to help.  Cole appeared through the door seconds after we started, at first angry as fuck that we were upsetting her pricey shindig, then worried but still calm when we explained that Kai was missing.  It wasn’t until the British team raced up not long after, alarm bells ringing, that Cole became truly concerned.  She instantly went to the front of the venue, shut the doors, radioed her people, and made an announcement.  No fight; no delays.  Every reaction was perfect.

“We’re looking for two of my guests, my employees, who have gone missing.  Until we find them, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask everyone to move to the main ballroom.  Drinks and food will be available, of course, and I’m sorry for the disturbance, but it’s imperative that we find my friends as soon as possible.”

Everyone complied immediately, offering small, murmuring sounds of condolence and concern.  The London Police, who had been staffing the outside of the venue, as well as the personal bodyguards of some of the high and mighty who attended the fundraiser, helped us do a concentric sweep of the property, moving in smaller and smaller circles until we closed in on the main room.  Then we took statements from everyone there, searched the VIP room again, called Kai’s phone a hundred times, and finally, around 3am, had to let people leave.  

By the time we got out, Gemma was frenetic with anxiety.  She had seen the police arrive, the movement around the event, but couldn’t come over.  So all night she’d just watched, waiting for any news, hoping against hope things hadn’t gone sideways.  And we all felt like shit, because we forgot about her.  We just fucking forgot Kai’s sister, waiting patiently across the road in a little café, getting more and more nervous as the silence and the sirens grew louder.  When Madds finally remembered, we stumbled into the café, feet heavy with exhaustion, the weight of failure like gravity pulling us down.  Gemms hadn’t said a word, just looked at us with wide, scared eyes and started crying.  I’ve never felt as tired as I did in that moment, watching the hope drain from her face.

Somehow Madds managed to push through the haze of anger and despair pulsing off of him and knelt before her, taking her hands in his.

“I’m sorry,” he’d choked out, “I’m so sorry.”  She just cried harder and pulled away from him.  Grabbing her phone with trembling hands, she tried over and over to call Kai, whispering with an increasingly frantic tone, “Please pick up.  Kai, please pick up!”  She was hysterical by the fifth attempt, and Madds finally took it from her.  Gently, and with such sympathy it hurt to watch, he wrapped his arms around her like she was a child, murmuring quietly under his breath that it would all be okay, that Kai is strong, that she’s smart and all of this would be a bad dream in the morning.  

But the morning came, and we haven’t seen or heard from her since.  

None of us really fell asleep, but we were all too exhausted to stay awake, so we slumped in hard-backed chairs with falsely closed eyes for the few hours we got before being called in by Babylon for a full debrief.  And here’s where we fucked up a second time.  We missed our window to call Lachy, to fill him in.  I thought I’d have a chance after we had finished, but our personal devices, Gemma’s included, were confiscated, and we were put in River City until further notice.  Our personal gear was transferred to a “safe house”, all comm was monitored, and every minute for the next week was scheduled down to the second.  No contact allowed outside of our immediate teams and only at the offices.  We’d fucked our mission, big time, and while we were permitted to continue the investigation, they made it clear that, from this point on, both our team and the Brits were on a short leash with a choke collar.  Our girls had been taken with such ease that Babylon clearly suspected that someone on the inside helped.  Meaning one of us – the Brits or the Americans.  And if that wasn’t the goddamned icing on the cake, I don’t know what was.

Cole, fucking Cole, was on British news shows almost daily, “looking” for the girls.  She offered a reward – half a million dollars apiece – for any information leading to their discovery.  The press ate it up… she’d never shown much emotion or been very open with her private life before, so the whole thing was like a True Crime documentary, and they couldn’t get enough of it.  Jonah broke the safe-house TV the first time Cole appeared, eyes full of tears, asking for any information regarding the whereabouts of Kai and Maela.  Maddox, a million thoughts locked behind his glacial eyes, just swept up the wreckage, and a new TV appeared the next day without a word being said.

Cole was an open book.  She gave us everything.  Literally everything.  Flight records, employee records, staff information.  She let us see her digital schedule, go through her home in London, scour her offices – she gave us all the security tapes from that night.  Unedited.  We interviewed Fallon; the Brits interviewed Fallon; both teams questioned Cole multiple times.  And every single time she seemed as completely shell shocked as we were.

“She’s faking it,” Jonah said flatly after one such interrogation.  “She’s happy.  Fucking delirious.”

But what could we do?  Nothing.  That’s what.  Not a single fucking thing.  And Babylon was pissed.  “This woman is your suspect?  This woman?  Who is letting us comb through her entire life without warning?”  All that evidence they’d eaten up a few weeks back of the girls’ visions and readings… well.  It was becoming harder and harder for them to keep the faith when Cole was offering them her life on a silver platter, canceling all engagements to be at their full disposal, day or night.  

After another week of no sleep and no answers, we were forcibly pulled back to the US to continue our investigation there.

The day after we returned, without a word, Tanaka moved his gear into Baird’s house.  Two days later Maddox resigned as our team lead, resigned from the CIA, and resigned from Babylon in one fell swoop, then disappeared.  Just… poof.  Off the radar.  No phone, no note, nothing.  Years of watching his six, years of friendship and brotherhood, and the only person I’d ever trusted to guard my blind side was gone.  He just… left.  And Babylon’s suspicions increased.  Any and all contact with Madds was to be reported, immediately and without fail.  But they were wasting breath, because he never called. 

Then they asked me to step into the team-lead position, at least temporarily, and everything since has been a festival of suck.

Here’s the real gut punch – Kai wasn’t officially a Babylon employee.  She fought so hard against it that she only had temporary papers, and her contract expired December 25, ten days after she went missing.  Merry fucking Christmas.  It was one of the few areas where Madds and I had disagreed, actually.  I always thought it was strange that Babylon accepted her “trial offer” deal.  It was really unlike them.  He was convinced it was so we’d have time to bring her fully on board.  I wasn’t as sold.  I’d never seen them fold like that, and fucking hindsight, right?  But now I’m pretty sure it was so they could use her but not be responsible for her if the operation went sideways.  She called it when she said she was a tool for them.  And tools are easily disposable and replaceable.  No culpability once the clock ticks over and the contract expires.  

So we were left in a strange situation.  She disappeared while working for Babylon, but they were reluctant to “expend resources” looking for her, not specifically anyways.  At first they were letting us continue our search only as it pertained to Kronos.  That was it.  Finding the girls would have been the bonus.  But the clock on that fucking contract, right?  Tick-tick-tick… the second that hand passed midnight, something changed, and it has all of us on edge.  Our resources have slowly been drying up, our requests for information ignored.  I know I don’t have the same rep at Babylon that Madds did, but they placed me in charge, and then went radio silent.  And it’s making me fucking nervous as hell.

I haven’t told the guys yet about the directive I received this morning – I don’t know how to, really.  A three-word email, nothing more.  Hold on Cole, it said.  That’s it.  Hold on Cole.  Cole, who the first two weeks after the girls’ disappearance was front and center on every news program in England, seemingly asking for information, begging for anything that would “lead to their safe discovery”.  But God damn.  Once we reviewed the footage, we realized it was, to be honest, a masterclass in misdirection.  Days one through four?  All about the girls, “friends” of Cole’s.  A small, almost unnoticeable shift on days five through ten – Kai slowly became a temperamental recluse, a loner who worked a stressful and mind-breaking job.  People were interviewed about her – a former boyfriend who needs his teeth caved in gave “insight” into her personality.  Maela was painted as a grad student who was struggling under the weight of her studies and growing bills.  A stranger in a strange land – too American for Britain, too British for the US.  Another loner, another struggling no one.  And Gaia became an angel descending, coming to save them from themselves.  But Lucifer was an angel too, wasn’t he?  

Then.  Days ten through fourteen happened.  Elizabeth, speaking for Gaia, with tears in her eyes, started talking about Gaia’s mission – saving those who can’t save themselves.  Helping those lost and wandering souls – sometimes brilliant, but unstable – find a home.  And no, she never mentioned Kai’s name, or Maela’s, but somehow the implied narrative became that the girls had simply cracked under the pressure and ran off.  After all, with all the people looking for them, with the amount of reward money being offered, wouldn’t someone have a lead?  A sighting?  An anonymous tip?  It was never explicitly said, I’ll give her that.  But there was enough inference for people to draw their own conclusions.  And then the next big celebrity misstep happened, some C-grade actress tweeting inappropriate shit, and the girls faded from the news cycle in the flash of a paparazzi camera.  Lost to the TikTok attention span of the goldfish public.  

We didn’t forget – not one of us.  We’ve been living in a fucking mausoleum for weeks.  Searching for any splinter of hope in a vat of bureaucratic quicksand.  Spending wasted hours pouring over blueprints and begging for scraps of information.  And now – Hold on Cole.  I don’t know if it’s that Cole has done such a good fucking job of snowballing them that Babylon want us to ease up on her because they’re having doubts, or if – and this scares the fuck out of me – now that they’ve had eyes on the prize, that really they just want access to her research.  And Christ, do they want those formulas.  Since the girls went missing, Cole has been beyond compliant.  All her battle and bite has dissipated into concerned sweetness.  Babylon needs access to her labs?  Of course, no problem.  Babylon needs to interview her scientists?  Let’s get that arranged.  That door that was shut so tight mere weeks ago has finally been cracked open, and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach keeps whispering that maybe, to Babylon, those formulas are worth more than a couple girls’ lives.  If that were true, though…  I can’t think about the implications.  

So we've been forced to look for them between the margins, in the shadows, on the edges, in every spare second that we can give.  And we’ve stayed with Babylon so we can be in the know, tap into their assets, task their people, and just try to find our girl.

But this?  Hold on Cole?  

Lachlainn startles me out of my thoughts, nodding his head toward Shotridge.  I sigh and nudge a plate of food towards him.  “Hey.  Eat.”

Those are our conversations these days.  Everything happens around the kitchen table, the only place we see each other half the time.  You’d think we would have fallen apart without Kai, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what would happen when we got back to Vashon.  Jonah, Tanaka, and I stood shoulder to shoulder, walking up to deliver the news to Baird.  I honestly didn’t know how to tell him, would probably have said something overly blunt and stupid, but he already had the door open as we walked up the drive, as though he’d been waiting there since we left, and I watched his face collapse as we stepped onto the porch.

“Is she dead?”  His voice – Christ.  Christ.  It was so flat.  So empty.  I don’t even know how he got the words out, but I knew as he said them that if she was… if we knew she was… vomit rises in my mouth at the thought, and I have to gulp it back.  I knew from the way he asked the question that he wouldn’t last in this world without her.  And it choked me.  I couldn’t speak.  Shotridge had barely spoken for two weeks.  So it was Tanaka who replied. 

“She’s missing, Lach.”  

“Missing?”

Tanaka nodded, and Baird straightened up like he was shouldering a heavy weight.  “Okay.  Okay.  Come on in guys.  I’ll start dinner.”

We all filed in, one after another, sat silently at the table, and let Lachlainn feed us.  And somehow we just kept going.  We have a brotherhood.  We take care of each other.  

Shotridge looks up at me from the plate with dead eyes.  Heavy circles surround them, and I narrow my eyes.  Are they bruises?  Or is he just tired?  Christ.  I don’t even recognize the kid anymore.  “Eat,” I say again, and there’s a flicker of life in him for a second.

“You eat,” he parrots back, and I’m almost happy hearing the shadow of his former self in his voice, then feel guilty for feeling happy for even a millisecond.  God damn we’re fucked up.

“I ate… Christ.  When did I eat, Lach?”

He ambles over and drops another plate in front of me.  “Not recently enough.”

It smells good, but it all tastes like sawdust.  Still, I force myself to finish the plate, and Jonah silently matches me, bite for bite.

Lachy watches for a second, then gets himself a place and sits with us.  “Hideo’s due back tonight,” he says almost casually, and we all tense.  Tanaka’s due back tonight, and with that, the strangled tendril of hope in my stomach blooms a little.  Tanaka’s almost home.

Isolating a Harp String

Kailani

Breathing is exhausting.  The weight of my chest on my lungs is overwhelming and never-ending.  It’s a Sisyphean task, pushing the boulder of my ribs up and out to give some small space for oxygen, then the welcome collapse of release, before starting all over.  There is no energy for anything else but survival in my body.  Up-in–down-out.  I can’t even open my eyes.

A clinically concerned voice I recognize but can’t identify comes from the side of my bed.  “Is she cognizant?  It seems like too much.  We want to bend her, not break her.”

And then, “We’ve worked the numbers, Ms. Cole.  A lesser dose and she fights us.  I have someone watching the stats carefully.  And no, with this much in her, she should be so far under it will take a stimulant to wake her.  I am confident in the dosage.”

A low humming sound.  “Her color isn’t good, Phos, and her O₂ stats should be better.  How long can we have her on midazolam before there are side effects?”

Pages being flipped.  “Well.  It’s a short acting benzodiazepine.  Effective at causing retrograde amnesia – interesting fact, that’s why it’s given to patients that wake up during surgery – so they don’t remember what happened.  Quick elimination half-life, which is why we’re using it.  A version of it anyway.”  He laughs a little.  “We’ve made upgrades, of course.  Made some… adjustments.”

“Run through the side effects with me again?”

Flip, flip, flip.  “Nothing unforeseen.  It can cause paranoia.  Suicidal ideations, which shouldn’t be an issue… problems with judgment, coordination – not that she’s going anywhere.”  Laughter again.  “The crown jewel, though, what we’re looking at here, is the impaired memory.  That’s our balancing act.  And it has some… trouble… playing nicely with other medications.  Much like our patient here.  That’s where we’re having issues.  We’re using our proprietary blend, but the midazolam doesn’t work as well as some other drugs when we put it in the mix.”

Elizabeth is clearly not impressed.   “Options?”

“We’ve seen some promising results with atorvastatin, surprisingly.  Lowers the memory and your cholesterol all at once!”

“Dr. Phos.  Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear earlier.  You are in a precarious position at the moment.  I’d recommend watching your tone.”

A flurry, a sharp breath.  “Yes.  I apologize.  We’re trying a mix to dampen the central nervous system, which impacts memory.  I’ve run a few trials with certain narcotics that attack the problem differently – those medications work by stemming the pain signals within the central nervous system and by numbing one's emotional reaction to pain.  Apomorphine, pramipexole, and ropinirole are all options – side effects are memory loss, drowsiness, delusions, hallucinations, confusion, and compulsive behaviors, which isn’t a problem per se.  Just something we need to be aware of.  Obviously, we’re using beta blockers – I’m reluctant to mix in some of the sleeping aids.  I think, given time, the mix with the midazolam is the most promising.

“Hmmm.”  There is a pause, and a cool hand on my forehead, but it feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, pushing my head slowly beneath the quicksand.  “You’ve corrected course, I assume, from our initial attempt in December?  It wasn’t a complete waste, but not as effective as anticipated.”

“Yes.  The problem was an assumption of external coercion being enough.  The confusion combined with the changed location, presented alternative reality, and the medication should have been sufficient.  It has been previously.  Her mental walls, for lack of a better term, were stronger than anticipated.  That’s why we’re attempting the blunting of the emotional reaction to pain, so we can alter some of those response channels.  And then we’ll start running the individual medications, once the short-term–long-term memory balance has been perfected.”

“Nothing lost, Phos.  You understand?  Removed, recorded, but not lost.  Any information on her team, their operations, their structure – pull it all, every single thing, no matter how small.  I want it.  Any of her history… I need all the pieces.”

“Of course, Ms. Cole.”  He hesitates.  “She’s burying things very, very deep, but we’re making every attempt to, if not fully remove, at least cut off her ability to access any of it.”  There’s a heavy silence, and his words trip over themselves.  “We will get it all though.  Of course.  And we should be able to start isolating her emotions very soon.”

A hint of approval enters Elizabeth’s voice.  “From a blank canvas?”

“Precisely.  We’re taking her down to zero.  That’s the goal, anyway.  She’ll be the perfect test subject.  If we can get her to flatline emotionally, and reliably stay there, without any of the… more unfortunate… side effects we’ve seen to this point, then I’ll feel significantly more confident in a wider roll-out.  There are very few people I’ve come in contact with who have her level of shielding.  If we can alter her baseline responses safely, then I’d feel good moving ahead on a small-scale roll-out.  Start with some of the smaller government agencies first, obviously.  I wouldn’t go to a senator or similar yet.  Definitely not anyone like Haspel or Wray.  In fact, I’d leave the alphabet agencies out until we’re completely sure.  Try someone who wouldn’t be missed if they had a breakdown.  Nothing largescale until I know longer-term effects.”

“Is she pushing out to others in group settings?  Have we worked on that?”

There’s a long pause.  “Well…”

“Well?”  Her answer burns like frostbite.

“We’re in a bit of an all-or-nothing situation at the moment.  The balance has proven to be… difficult.  She is locking herself up very tightly.  So we are currently either shutting everything down, or things seep through the cracks.” 

“Phos.”  The word is a warning.  “It’s strings on a harp.  We need to be able to pluck a single one.  A single string, for a single sound.  You understand?   But we can’t cut all the other strings off the harp, or we can’t play the harp.  We can’t destroy the entire instrument, or it will never be able to serve its purpose in the end.”  Her voice darkens, and my mouth fills with ash.  “This is my personal harp, Phos.  If you damage it to the point I can’t play it, I’ll feel no compulsion to preserve your already fragile role in my orchestra.  You understand?”

A whining, hollow sound, like a far-distant train fast approaching, fills my ears.  Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, covering all other noises in the room.  There is a mumbled response, and light tug on a tube in my arm.      

She continues.  “There still needs to be a controllable level of empathy for others, Phos.  Otherwise, we’re just creating a series of sociopaths.  No one wants nuclear war.  We just want the dominos to fall correctly when we nudge them.”  Her voice pulses in and out with my heartbeat.  “How close are we?... must meet our deadlines… before I sign the agreement.  Once that’s done, all operations will have to stop until the G7 summit… they have to believe I’m abiding by the terms… have been invited to speak, and I need it to be reliable enough to give to any head of state who may be… less than willing… to adjust course in a suggested manner.  Otherwise, things can continue without interference.  We need to be able to have this work, and then pull away.  Yes?  So I need to know that she can come back to herself if we need her to.  That those pathways won’t stay closed permanently.”  There’s a pause, cool fingers stroking my forehead.  “She’s quite unique, Phos.  I’d take it very personally if, in the course of this trial, she loses the abilities that make her special.  I have plans down the line for my friend.  Given time and distance, I am confident she’ll come around, once she sees the results of the rollouts.  She’s always been partial to helping children.”

I assume he nods.  It’s hard to tell.  Someone has piled rocks on my chest.  It’s getting tighter, tighter, tighter, and little lightning bolts of panic ignite in my veins.  The beep-beep-beep by my bedside is becoming more pronounced.

“I corrected the last round, Ms. Cole.  I assure you.  This should be, for lack of a better term, a positive neutral.  Once we get her there, we can try cycling through the mood-control medications.  I’ve spoken with Hera – her professional opinion is that our patient needs repetitive stressors on her to make sure they’re stable, to make sure she’s not able to work through them or shield against them.  She’s suggesting rotating through the more classic techniques, combined with our more modern approaches.  I will, of course, defer to her expertise.  In order to create a proper environment, Hera’s suggesting moving her closer to Ms. Driscoll.   Our patient needs an emotional lodestone.  We won’t be able to reach guilt or self-betrayal otherwise, and if there are no cracks, we can’t adjust the foundation.  It’s a balancing act; she has no real sense of self-preservation.  For others that she cares about, well.  That’s a different story.  So we give her one.  But we’ll remove all other external reminders of her previous life – that means no waking visits with you.  We’re changing course for her.  She needs fewer ties to the past, not more.  For this one, we’ll start replacing her stronger memories with new, similar ones.  For the other… well, her course of treatment will be different.”

Maela?  Are they talking about Maela?  The beeping increases, and there’s a flurry of activity around me, a door opening, a rush of sound.

“Her O₂ has dropped again.  Ease off on the drip.  Someone get her masked please.  No need for the cart.  We caught it in time…”

I struggle weakly against the barrage of noise and unknown hands on my bare skin.  “Now, now, Kailani.  It’s alright.  Just breathe.  Just breathe.”

Easier said than done… I manage to think, before the world turns cotton-candy pink, and I drift away.

Making Lists

Hideo

I don’t know which are worse – Donovan’s painfully hopeful eyes, or Jonah’s bruised, dead ones.  Baird I just can’t figure out at all.  The day we came home and told him we lost Kai, I thought we were going to lose him completely too.  There was a moment – I know that moment.  Where you’re on the edge of sanity, and you don’t know if you can step back.  He was close.  And I would have failed her again.  But somehow he pushed through, just opened his door and made us dinner.

And now he’s standing by the stove, silent, glancing between the two men sitting at the table and me.  He meets my eyes and sighs, shaking his head at whatever he sees on my face.  I’m getting sloppy if he can read anything, so I school my expression to show no emotion.

“Nothing.”  I should try to find better words, but sometimes it’s best to cut straight to the quick.  A million small slices or one deep one – it’s all the same.  You’ll still bleed out.  Jonah’s hands spasm, his black eyes darkening to black holes, and I narrow my eyes, studying his bruised, cracked knuckles.  He stares back at me, lips twisted in a sardonic, almost taunting smile, as though he’s waiting for a question that I’m not going to ask.  I don’t need to ask it, Shotridge, I think grimly.  I already know the answer.  And I’ve let it go on too long.  I make a mental note, adding to the already pages-long list in my head.   It’s time to pull him out.  He’s going too deep down the rabbit hole.  I wasn’t planning on forcing the issue at first – we’ve all been dealing with things in our own ways as best we can, but his fingers are flexing over and over again, bones showing white under sallow skin, and I know it’s gone from coping to consuming. 

Walker tries to stay still, unflinching, but the hope drains from his face, leaving him pale and hollow.  His expression is usually carefully blank these days, shuttered, keeping the pain of losing Kai and Maddox buried beneath never-ending emails and ceaseless busywork tasked to him by Babylon.  The flash of emotion speaks volumes; if he’s worn down enough to let that through, then I haven’t been paying close-enough attention to him.  I’ve been tracking him, of course, but I obviously let something slip through the cracks while I was gone.  Careless.  Careless.  A week is too long.  Add it to the list.  Shorter trips, even if they’re more tiring.  What else did you miss?  Doing a quick review in my head, I run through the morning.  He was already up when I woke, staring at his work computer with a furrowed brow, several days of growth shadowing his jaw.  He wasn’t typing anything – his fingers weren’t even on the keyboard.  He just sat, barely moving, before burying his head in his hands in apparent frustration.  Something happened while I was away, clearly about Babylon, beyond what we’re already dealing with.  Another item on the list – what is he hiding?  Check in on Walker.

These little lists, the daily agendas – these are how I get through.  Not the weeks, or days, or even hours.  These are how I get through the minutes, ugly and heavy, that weigh down every breath I take.  Adding ten items for every one I check off, going as fast as I can, being as careful as I can.  I know, I know, if I can just ask the right questions, find the right weak point, then I’ll find her.  And maybe everything won’t feel so broken, like I’m looking through the wrong side of the mirror, wondering how I got trapped here.  But somehow the lists keep growing, no matter how much I try, and cold panic seizes my heart.  Stay calm.  Listen.  Watch.  Don’t miss anything.  Or you will never get her back.

Because here’s the truth of the matter, the secret so poisonous I can’t even say it to myself in the silent hours of the night.  I knew she was pushing too hard.  I knew it.  I know her better than I know myself, could feel it on her when I danced with her at the gala that night, little electric currents running along her skin, making the hairs stand on end.  And she told me – here’s where the guilt will never fade, where the acid will corrode until it eats my heart.  She told me.  I run the words through my head on repeat, hear her voice at all hours, whispering, “I’m bordering on exhaustion.  My head still feels fractured – it’s too soon to be reading this much, but if it helps…” 

I know her.  Know she would run herself to the ground if it meant helping someone else, if it meant being seen as worthy, as valuable to the team and the mission. 

And what did I do?

Offered her some fucking water.  

That’s how I protected her.  How I “took care” of my partner, my friend, my…  I sat her down, told her she didn’t look good, and got her water.  I didn’t force her to stop.  Didn’t suggest she quit, that maybe it was too much.  I didn’t even check the glass, just took it from a passing waiter and gave it to her.  Was something in the water?  Was it drugged?  What did you miss? She’d been getting headaches.  She never got headaches.  Every time she’d been with Cole those last couple of weeks, though, she came back with migraines.  What did you miss?  But I didn’t say anything.  I just stayed with the plan, like a good little agent, and poof.  She was gone.  Careless.  Stupid.  You know better.  I should have… but I cut myself off.  Yeah, I should have.  But I didn’t.  I didn’t.  And now she’s gone, because of me.  Because I failed her.  I didn’t listen carefully enough.  I missed the signs.  And if I do it again, I lose any chance I have of finding her.  So I need to get it together.  Or I’ll fail her again.

I’m dropping the ball, Kai. I think to her.  I’ve gotten in the habit of speaking to her in the quiet parts of my day, in the spaces she used to fill.  I don’t want to let her go – I can’t let her go – and the pain of missing her gets worse with every passing second.  So I speak to her, in case she can hear me.  In case she can feel me, the same way I can feel her, still breathing, somewhere out in the world, waiting for me to find her.

What should I do, Kai?  I know the rest of the team misses her – Walker can barely say her name… not really the depth of emotion I initially expected from the guy when I first met him.  Jonah has become a dark shadow of himself.  Even Maddox – the rest think he just quit on us.  Just gave up on her.  But I saw his face when he resigned, and there was murder in every line.  Lachy and I, though – it’s different for us.  She took up different space with us than she did with them.  

When I lost Kai, I didn’t lose a piece of something; I lost the whole of it.  Kai wasn’t a star in my sky, she was the sky itself.  As far as I could see, everything surrounding me was her, and nothing else.  And I loved every version of her – cloudy, sunny, raining, storming – whatever she was, she was, in her perfectly imperfect way.  And without her there is a void that cannot be filled.  Before any of the rest of them existed in her world, I woke thinking of her, moved through my day with her purpose as my purpose, ate with her, drank with her, trained with her, and my dreams were of nothing but her.  Kai consumed me.  

And now there is nothing.  Nothing but an empty spot at the table, waiting to be filled.  And a group of fractured men, waiting to be somehow put back together.

I got back too late last night to brief the team.  Flights were delayed and delayed, and it was after midnight by the time my taxi pulled into Baird’s driveway.  Kai’s Mini was missing from its usual space near the garage, which meant Jonah wasn’t home, even at that late hour.  Add it to the list.  The entire house was pitch black – just a single lamp was left glowing in the front window, the beacon for weary travelers, welcoming them home.  And I paused for a long moment, wondering if that’s where I was – home – or if that word even existed in a world where Kai wasn’t by my side. 

Baird scared me half out of my skin when I went through the front door – he was sitting silently in the front room, staring out over the dark woods into the void.  Whatever he was seeing wasn’t something that was visible in the midnight hour, but he never took his eyes off it, even as I came inside.  From the door I could see his shoulders tense, waiting, but I didn’t have time to speak before they collapsed back down in defeat.  I don’t know how he knew – just something in the sound of my footsteps had him scrubbing a calloused hand across his face.  He had to clear his throat before forcing reluctant words out in a low, rough voice.  “Glad you’re back safe.  Get some sleep.  I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

“Lach–”  I hadn’t known what to say, and in a way was glad when he held up a single hand, stalling any other meaningless words.  “Right.  See you tomorrow.”

And now it’s tomorrow too quickly, even with the interminable hours of a near-sleepless night between then and now, and the walls are closing in around me.  I’m failing.  I’m failing.  I can see it in their faces, in their backs curved beneath an invisible weight.  Walker folds in on himself, reinforcing his barriers, and straightens the stack of papers in front of him as though, if they’re neat enough, maybe they’ll reveal the answers we seek.  Shotridge lurches from his place to grab a coffee, then stumbles to the table looking half-anxious, half-rebellious, slumping towards his place at the table with a set jaw and bruised eye.  And Lachlainn… well.  He’s impossible to read.  The quiet heartbeat of the house – making sure people are fed, keeping things moving, ever steady, ever forward.  I don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling; he is a wall of silence and stone.  His list in my head is a mile long, and empty.  All I can do is watch, and wait, and try desperately not to miss anything again. 

“Ten–” Walker pauses and clears his throat, before taking a breath and powering through.  “Tennireef’s a dead end?”

“He is.  At least, at the moment.”  

Walker scrubs a hand over his face roughly.  “Well.  We’re in trouble then.  Because yesterday Babylon contacted me.”  His voice cracks, just slightly.  “Official word is to hold on Cole.  No explanation.  No further instruction.  So if Tennireef doesn’t pan out…”

Lachy’s and Jonah’s heads jerk up to face Walker, twin expressions of anger and alarm in their eyes.   It’s clear this is news to them.  Narrowing my eyes thoughtfully as his voice trails off, I run the unexpected information through my head, trying to see where it fits in the growing puzzle.  I can sense growing frustration from Walker at my seeming lack of response, and less so from Lachlainn.  I know how they see me.  Emotionless, cold… single-minded, maybe, if they’re being generous.  Kai brought out something inside me that was just for her.  I don’t know if it exists at all without her, but I’m trying.  For her I’m trying.  

“Okay,” I begin slowly.  “Let’s not panic.  We just have to break it into pieces until something jumps out at us.  Something is there.  We just need to find it.  I’ll review – I tracked Tennireef as long as possible.  His security is unbelievable.  Definitely beyond any normal senator or congressman.  I’m certain I lost him for short, seemingly negligible, periods of time.  And there are times I suspect he knew I, well, someone, was following him, based off his movements.  He’s being incredibly careful, without making it obvious.  I’m not…” I pause, thinking through how to say what’s been bothering me.  “I’m not sure, though, who he is avoiding.”  That piques their interest, sparking the tiniest amount of life into their eyes.

“What do you mean?” Jonah asks, voice rough, and I narrow my eyes, trying to think of the last time I actually heard him say… well, say much of anything.  I’m still having trouble recognizing the man in front of me as Kai’s grinning partner in crime.  I’d never say it, but the two of them were striking, with their long hair tangled and blowing in the wind, almost indistinguishable from each other’s, sitting in the courtyard during their lunches, laughing their heads off at whatever show they’d chosen that week.  He lit her up somehow, made her glow in happiness. There were days I'd make up a meeting and skip our lunch together, just so she'd be able to have some of that time with him, absorb some of his lightness.  There were parts of her he unlocked that I'd never seen, and it was a stupidly small gift I could give her – time with Shotridge, a chance to have that unrestrained joy.

Now – it’s difficult to remember that side of him.  He sheared his hair off one night; it’s short and close to his head now, only a thin shadow visible on his scalp.  The laughter that was always present has been snuffed; the surfer boy replaced by someone with sharp and dangerous edges.  This version of Shotridge – I wouldn’t want to go against him.  I’m not sure how I would come out.

“Well…” I pause, working through the tangled knot of information in my head, “I suppose I mean – I’m not entirely sure he’s hiding from us?  Or someone else.  It feels so carefully planned… it just seems like I’m missing something.  We’ve had eyes on everything that’s been happening when he’s in Seattle, obviously.”

A smug expression flashes across Jonah’s face, the brief change a welcome relief from his bleak countenance.  He’d somehow hacked into the security cameras at Tennireef’s downtown offices.  I didn’t even ask how he’d accomplished it.  Culpability and all that.  We’ve had to close our eyes to a lot that Shotridge has done – somehow we have copies of Tennireef’s personal credit-card expenses, his travel plans for the next two months, and a mirrored account of his personal secretary’s calendar.  He never says a thing about how he gets any of it, just disappears for a bit, then walks into the house and drops the newest acquisition on the table.  This latest – a wireless screen, like you’d see on a baby monitor, with an almost perfect image of Tennireef’s office on it, appeared the last time I was gone.  Walker and Jonah have been binge-watching the feed since, like it was the latest Netflix drama.  They alternated sessions, with Lachy listening overnight just in case, and we had notes on every time Tennireef sneezed in the past month.

“I know he’s been in DC for the past week, but prior to that?  Do you have the visitor log?”  Walker nods and tosses me a small, dark book, which makes my lips twitch despite myself.  “His little black book?”

He smirks in reply.  “I’d kill to have access to his actual little black book.  But sadly, no.  Just a poor replica.”

Looking up at him sharply, I cock my head.  “His actual little black book?”

Walker nods.  “Yeah.  Dude keeps a pocket-sized one with him at all times.  I’ve never seen it leave his hand.”

“Do we know what’s in it?”

He shrugs a single shoulder, as though he doesn’t have the energy to do more.  “Only seen him call someone from it once.  Skyrockets in flight…” he sings sardonically, and I quirk my brow at him.  “Afternoon Delight?” he responds to my quizzical look with one of his own.  “Seriously, Tanaka?  You don’t know Starland Vocal Band?”

Shaking my head, I look back down at the book in my hand, flipping through the pages.  “Never heard of them.”

“What the fuck, man?  What do you listen to?  Let me guess.  Classical shit.  Lots of violins or something.  Swan Lake.”  He’s clearly trying to lighten the mood, but the question hits unexpected chords in my chest, and I can feel myself flush, something that rarely happens.  It catches Jonah’s and Lachy’s attention as well, and I know my face is reddening further under the weight of their curious gazes.  “Deo?”  Walker’s interested now, and I try desperately to control my emotions.  “What do you listen to?”

How to answer?  How to answer?  

Lachy walks over to stand beside me, interrupting my thoughts, and sets a plate in front of me.  I look up in surprise at the pao de quijo, a Brazilian breakfast my dad used to make for me when I was a child.  Another strummed chord in my chest; the memory almost hurts.  I don’t know how to respond and end up just offering a small nod his way.  “Thanks, Baird,” I say under my breath.

Lachy shrugs, then sits heavily beside me.  

What are you missing?  I narrow my eyes, giving him a quick once over.  “You okay?” I ask, not really expecting much of an answer.  I still don’t know where I stand with the man, after everything that happened with Kai, all of the lies, the betrayal.  The past few weeks together have been painfully polite, but uneasy.  Cautious, really, with the shadow of my previous actions sitting at the table between us.  It’s them, and it’s me, and I don’t know how to get to the other side of the divide I’ve created.  I’m not… I’m not good at this.  Not with anyone but Kai.  It’s easier for the rest of them.  And if I can’t figure out how to… how to be a part of this, then when Kai gets back…  My stomach turns as I think of it, and I push the plate away from me, only to have him push it back and shake his head.

“Those thoughts aren’t doing you any good,” he rumbles.  Kai once said he sounded like a Creole James Earl Jones, and he really does, deep, cavernous voice echoing from the massive man beside me.  

Looking at him sharply, I frown, but he just points at my plate. “Eat,” he commands, and when Baird tells you to do something, well, you just do it for some reason.  

Walker watches the interaction through careful eyes, and I feel exposed, stripped bare in front of all of them.  It takes everything in me not to build up my walls, to just stay raw.  “I…” The word sticks in my throat, and I try again.  “I mostly listen to mix-tapes Kai made me.  Makes me.”

Lachy chokes on coffee beside me, then starts laughing unexpectedly, the sound rolling through the room.  “Oh, no, Tanaka.  You can’t be serious.”

Jonah and Walker both lean forward across the table, twin expressions of hunger naked on their faces.  “Why?” Jonah asks, but it’s more of a demand, something dark and longing in his voice.  

“Kai… um… how to say it kindly?”  Lachy’s voice is rumbling with suppressed amusement, and, despite myself, I can’t help but grin back.  It feels wrong, to be happy when she’s gone, to feel anything other than unceasing desperation at her absence, but… her mix-tapes.  “She.  Ah.  She puts a lot of time and effort into making CDs for people – well, for me, and Gemms.  And evidently Hideo.”  

“So?”  This from Walker, his hands flexing with impatience.

“She… she has… unique?  Would you call it unique, Baird?  Unique taste in music.”  For a brief moment, we’re in total accord, and I feel some of the constant weight slip from my shoulders.

“It can’t be that bad…” Jonah says, and I wince.

“Did she ever give you the Rotgut McBroadsword mix?” I ask Lachy, and his face looks pained.  

“Oh God.  Her pirate heavy-metal era.”

“That cannot be a real thing,” Walker mutters under his breath, already searching for it on his phone, and I shake my head.

“I assure you it is.  The Formidable Tale of the Fearless Captain Rotgut McBroadsword.  By Scuurvy, I believe.”

“You’re a better man than I am, Hideo,” Lachy says.  “I skipped her metal era altogether.  Big fan of her emo mixes though, and her guitar playlists.  The Irish stuff was good.  The Black MIDI, though… Night of Nights?”  He shivers.

Jonah makes a small sound, not pained exactly, but there’s something in it that catches my attention.  “I’ll be happy to make you copies of my stuff,” I offer quietly, and he doesn’t look up, still staring at the table.  “No guarantees about your hearing abilities after, though.”

He offers a small smile, barely anything at all, and doesn’t answer, just reaches out to tap the book in my hands.  You let yourself get distracted by emotion.  You’re dropping the ball.  Disgusted with myself, I shake the memory of music from my mind, and look back to Walker with renewed focus.  Lachy sighs sadly beside me.

“What was the Afternoon Delight?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“Lachy was actually watching first, so he knows better how it started.”

Lachy makes a small rumbling sound of agreement.  “He called someone to schedule French lessons?  Not unusual – he’s pretty open about his language studies.  Building out that presidential resume.  But about half an hour later a… lady of comfort… showed up.  High end.  No one would ever have seen her enter the building thinking she was anything other than an actual French tutor.  She was very, very professional.”

Walker nods.  “To be honest, Lachy is convinced she was a hired escort, but I’m less so.  They did have a French lesson in his office.  And then he locked the door and went to a closet or something for a bit – there’s a room at the back that we don’t have access to.  So no visual verification of bedroom activities.  But when they came out, he definitely looked… happier.  Still, he’s never been seen with anyone.  Never publicly connected with anyone romantically.  Other than Kai,” he adds as an afterthought.  “So if he did hire someone, that would be almost impossible to keep quiet.  If he were just having a quiet affair with his French tutor?  That might be easier to cover up.”

“How did the woman look?”  

“Eh, not as happy.  I’ll say that much.  A quick comb and a bit of lipstick and you couldn’t tell a difference from when she arrived, but she seemed a little shaken.  Come to think of it, when he reached out to steady her as she put her shoes on, she flinched away from him a little.  Not enough to raise alarm bells in the moment, but… it was there.”

“She flinched?”  I tap my fingers thoughtfully.  “Maybe something we could exploit?  If we can find her… Walker…” I begin slowly, wheels turning in my head.  “Do you have the footage?”

He nods, takes the book back from me, and flips through the pages.  “Ah… yeah.  Okay.  Hang on.”  Grabbing a small case, he looks through rows of SD cards until he finds the one he wants, then opens his computer and cues up a video, mumbling to himself under his breath.  “Okay, so… 10… 12…  It should be coming up here.  The notes say 2:30…”

We watch together as the scene unfolds in fast forward, everything happening just as Lachy and Walker had said.  When they emerge from the small back room, the woman definitely looks flustered but is hiding it well, face tight but placid.  

“Slow it down here?” I ask, and Walker nods.  She reaches out to the desk to lean on it and put her heels on; Tennireef offers his arm to steady her; she pulls away.  I narrow my eyes, something in the scene nagging at me.  What am I missing?  “Again?” I request.  “And slower?”  Walker cocks his head curiously but replays the interaction.  Leaning forward, I stare at the screen.  She moves, more slowly, each motion exaggerated.  What caught my attention?  And then, “Pause it!” I snap, and he does instantly.  

And there it is.  Just the tiniest flash, the smallest hint, but just as the woman hooks the back of her shoe over her heel, the sole glints in the light of the office.  Red.  A red I recognize.  Expensive.  Luxurious.  Not a shoe a normal escort, if that’s even what she was, would wear.  And I’m reminded of something Kai said once, when she briefed me on a meeting she had with a woman who runs one of the most successful escort rings in the city.  In the country, actually, if she’s to be believed.  

“Deo,” Kai had said with an unusual hint of longing in her voice, “apparently Chantalle has a library of red bottoms the girls wear while on… business.”

“Red bottoms?” I’d asked, confused, and she nodded.

“Louboutins,” then, seeing my still puzzled face, “They’re shoes.  Really, really nice shoes.”

“I didn’t know you cared about…  I mean, you don’t usually like shoes?”

“Well.  Not normal shoes.  But…” the yearning in her words was unmistakable.

“Why don’t I ever see you in them, then?” I asked stupidly, not fully understanding, and she laughed.

“‘Cause I don’t have $1,800.00 to spend on a pair of Lock Kate Botta?” she said, shaking her head and moving on to the next topic.

No.  She didn’t.  But… I did.  I remembered the name, and when I casually looked up the boots she wanted, I pictured her in them, and my mouth went dry.  The mental image of shoes like that on the woman you love – well, it makes a man stupid.  I bought them without thinking about how I was going to gift them to her.  They’re sitting in my closet even now, waiting for her.  So yeah.  I remember those shoes.  And I remember who wears them.

“Chantalle,” I say, strangling the hope that’s forcing its way up through my throat.

Walker whistles softly.  “You think?  One of hers?”

I shrug, not willing to say yes or no.  “I don’t know.  But it’s worth pursuing.  It doesn’t hurt to reach out.”    

“How are we going to get a hold of her without it being obvious?  I don’t…  I think, if we’ve been asked to step back from Cole, we have to assume that we’re being monitored.”  Walker’s reluctant.  “I don’t really understand what’s happening at Babylon right now, but it feels like they’re waiting for us to step out of line.  We need to be careful.  Very, very careful.”

There is silence for a long minute before Jonah sighs.

“I have a contact.”

He has a contact?  “What does that mean?” I ask, and Jonah just shrugs in return.

“It means I’ll handle it.  Give me a few days.”

It’s not much of an answer and causes more questions than anything else, but he’s clearly not going to elaborate.  Still, something loosens around the table, the band of steel around each man’s heart easing just enough to let a breath of oxygen in.  The lead is thin – barely anything at all.  But a door of possibility has been cracked open, when everything has been sealed up tighter than a tomb for weeks.  And it’s enough.  For now, it’s enough.

Meeting Dr. Beaufort

Maela

Dr. Beaufort looks grave when I come into her office.  It’s meant to look soothing, I think, with pale-beige walls, cream carpet with matching curtains, and a black, leather couch.  There’s a glass paperweight shaped like a lotus on her desk, petals tinged pink, with yellow stamens – the one frivolous item in the room.  I find the incongruity jarring.

“Well, Maela.”  Her voice is low and sweet, the sound of a warm wind blowing through feathery palm fronds, of hibiscus and bougainvillea and crystal-blue waters caressing ice-white sands.  Iara Beaufort is a striking woman, tall and ebony-skinned, with large, dark eyes and hair the color of a raven’s wing wrapped up in intricate cornrows on her head, like a crown.   

I take a seat on the edge of the couch.  “Hello, Dr. Beaufort.”

“I understand that you recently had a relapse.  How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.  It was just a small one.  Really,” I stammer.  I’m not regressing; I’m not!  I’m getting better, much better, and soon, I’ll go home.  

“Oh yes?  What happened, exactly?”  Dr Beaufort cocks her head at me, forehead creased with concern.

“I forgot, but just for a moment.  I know my dreams aren’t real.  I know they were just confabulations,” I say earnestly.

“You forgot?”  Dr. Beaufort's face grows even more somber, and she looks at me sympathetically.  “Maela, how long have you been here?”

“I don’t know,” I confess.  I don’t – the past weeks are a blur, a cracked kaleidoscope of monotone images, sepia days held together by broken nights.

“You don’t know?  Maela, you’ve been with us at Mount Ida for six weeks now.  Look, the snowdrops are blooming.” 

I cross to the window, looking out over the lawns.  It’s beautiful here: a smooth expanse of rich green grass flowing around islands of English Elms, a carpet of delicate white flowers beneath their bare branches.  On either side, the weathered stone wings of the sanatorium reach out to embrace the garden.  I’ve never been in the opposite wing.  I wonder what’s there.

“I can’t sleep,” I whimper.  “I’m so tired.  All the time.  I want to sleep.  But I can’t.  I go to bed, and I lie there, trying to fall asleep, hour after hour.  My mind won’t shut off.  I just go over and over what I did that day.  And my heart starts racing, and I get so scared, like something bad is about to happen.  It takes me ages to calm down.  And then, just as I start to drift off, one of the nurses comes in to give me my medicine.  And the whole cycle starts again.” 

“Well, let me reassure you: you are sleeping.  You’d be dead otherwise,” she notes wryly.  “But you’re not getting quality sleep.  Given that you were assaulted, that’s not surprising.  In addition to a traumatic brain injury, you’re probably suffering from PTSD.”

“If you could just turn off the camera,” I say desperately.  “That light, like a beady, little eye, judging my every move.  I can’t sleep if the room isn’t perfectly dark.  I never had a nightlight, even as a kid.  It’s just wrong.  It tricks your circadian rhythm.”

“Maela, the camera is there for your own good.  We need to know if you go into a seizure, so that we can intervene.”

“And why does the light on the clock have to blink?” I demand, almost petulantly.  “Why is it even lit?  I don’t need to know what time it is in the middle of the night!  Tick, tick, ticking off the seconds, reminding me of how long I’ve been lying there.  I can see it through my eyelids.  If you could just turn off the lights, I know I could fall asleep.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” she reassures me gently.  “Now, I think we’d better increase your medication.  Getting the dosage right can be trial and error.”  She taps into her computer.

“No!” I protest.

“No?”  Dr. Beaufort lifts one manicured eyebrow, the gesture catching at my heart.  Emlyn! I think with a pang.  Where are you?  Why aren’t you real?

“It makes me nauseous.  I feel sick all the time.  Tired and sick.”  With a sigh, I turn and sink back onto the couch, holding on to the edge of the cushions.  

“I’m sorry, Maela,” she says gently, “but it’s for your own good.  You’re lucky to be alive, considering the angle your head hit the lamp post.  You know that, don’t you?  That you’re a very lucky girl?”

I nod: “Yes.”

“And you want to get better, don’t you?”

I nod again, and she continues.  “Then you need to be a good girl and take your medicine.  Medicine, good food, fresh air, and rest.  Don’t worry; the insomnia won’t last forever.  Why don’t you share in your next group meeting?  Some of the other patients might be suffering the same thing.  You could help each other.”

My shoulders slump.  “OK.”

“Now, I know you’re having trouble sleeping, but are you having any daydreams?  Maybe when you’re supposed to be listening in Group?  The monitor mentioned that you sometimes look far away.”

I shake my head.  I think about the guys a lot, sometimes wishing I could escape into my head again, because the world I created was so beautiful and life at Mount Ida is so dreary, but I haven’t had a single lucid dream since waking from the coma.

“If you do, you must write the dream down in your journal, yes?”

At my nod, she smiles.  “Good girl.  Now, how is your leg doing?  Any pain?”

I stretch out my leg and cautiously rotate my ankle.  “No.  No pain.”  My leg’s still incredibly stiff, but at least my skin’s no longer scaly.  I felt like a lizard when the cast came off.  And the smell!  It made me gag and seemed to linger in the room for days.

“Excellent.  I think we can start you on physical therapy, build back those muscles.  Gentle walks, perhaps some work with resistance bands.”

“Yoga?” I ask hopefully.  

Her face falls.  “Oh, Maela.  You are relapsing, aren’t you?  No, no.  Don’t deny it,” she holds up a hand.  “Maela, Kavi isn’t real.  I know you wish he were.  He sounds rather wonderful,” she adds with a wry grin.  “But he only exists in your head.  Someday, you’ll meet someone who can appreciate you for the treasure you are, and I know you’ll be very happy.  But Kavi, Emlyn, Jorge, and Seef aren’t real.  Are they?”

I look at her pleadingly, and her visage hardens.  “Are they?”

“No,” I say in a small voice, and something inside me dies all over again.

“Good girl,” she soothes me.  “Now, I have a little surprise for you.”  

I look up wanly.  What?  I get to learn how to do even crisper hospital corners?  There’s a new flavor of pudding in the cafeteria?

“I’ve been speaking with the nurses assigned to your care and with Dr. Phos–” 

Something stirs in my brain.  Dr. Phos?  Where have I heard that name before? 

“And we think you’d benefit from having a roommate.  A special friend.  Someone to help you get through the rough patches, catch you when you start to go backwards.  You’re not forming any bonds with the other patients, are you?  Now, I know after what you’ve been through that trusting new people may be hard, but I’m worried that you’re isolating yourself and retreating into your fantasy world.  You can’t move forward without fully confronting the accident and its aftermath.  I cannot help you if you don’t.  Your journal entries skip from working in the rare-books room at the British Library to waking up here at Mt. Ida; you’ve only written the bare outlines of your time in the coma, yet the fact that you still bring up your imaginary friends tells me that, deep down, you haven’t accepted what is true and what was only a figment of your traumatized brain.  Nonetheless, dreams are important, Maela.  They are clues to the subconscious, a product of cerebral cell communication, and I need to know exactly what your neurons are trying to tell you.  That in turn will tell me a great deal about which part or parts of your brain are not responding to the medication and how we should adjust your treatment.”  She smiles gently at me.  “So, I hope, if you can spend some one-on-one time with another patient, someone who, just like you, is struggling with her own demons, you’ll see that there’s no need to deny or pretend.  You suffered life-changing injuries, but ‘different’ needn’t mean ‘worse’.  She too is different and like you suffers from hallucinations.  Perhaps you’ll feel that you can share with her what you can’t share with anyone else, that she can understand where someone else, a so-called ‘normal’ person, cannot.”  

Is she saying?  No, surely not.

“Yes, we think that Kailani would be an excellent roommate for you.  After all, although you weren’t aware, and she really was a naughty minx,” Dr. Beaufort chuckles, “she’s already spent a lot of time with you.”

“But… but Nurse Cole said–”

Dr. Beaufort holds up a hand.  “I know.  And I won’t deny that there could be complications, but Kailani clearly took a shine to you, and I think that your subconscious will trust her.  You’ll be able to relax, perhaps, whereas with a perfect stranger, you might feel on edge.  We’ll give it a trial, at any rate.”  She presses a buzzer on her desk, and the door opens a moment later to reveal one of the orderlies.

“It’s time for Maela to return to her room.  Will you see that she gets there safely?” Dr. Beaufort asks.  The orderly nods, and I follow her down the corridor, my mind whirling.

Fragile Ties

Kailani

In the moments of shifting time between waking and sleep, memories spark in my brain like fireflies, bright snaps of color in a black sky.  Faces I have forgotten flash gunpowder bright, so close I can almost catch them in my hands to keep in a jar on a summer evening.  But as quickly as they come, they go, flares and fireworks thundering in my mind, and my heart gasps at the cacophony before they rainfall to the ground in dying embers.  There is so much of me that believes they are real, that believes these brief seconds in the nowhere twilight are, somehow, my actual life, that I belong with the fireflies and not the darkness.  But how can one moment of twenty-four hours be what’s real, and the other 86,000 be the lie?  Still, I’d trade all the minutes in my day for the seconds of my night if it meant having even a flicker of time more with them.  

The only one who stays longer than the others is the one I never talk about – he is the secret inside all of my other secrets, and I hide him in my heart where no one can find him.  I don’t know how they’ve missed him, but somehow he still exists in a little wooden cabin in the back of the dark forests tangling my brain.  And sometimes, in my sleep, if I go to visit him long enough, another and another come to visit, and I’m reminded that, as long as I can sleep, I will have somewhere that protects the tiny pieces of myself that I manage to keep safe.  I leave them behind with him in the cabin in the morning when the sun starts to rise, hidden in drawers, tucked behind jars on counters.  Here is my love of Christmas; there is a memory of pain au chocolat by firelight.  Behind the drawer is a song sung late at night, echoing over a silent Sound, and a dark room with a too-small bed with too many bodies, and far back where no one can see, a smile of fire and ice with a challenging edge that curls my toes. 

But there is one snow-bright dream that’s blinding, and every time I leave I have to break it into pieces or it won’t stay behind.  A silly, almost meaningless time on a pier with friends, fish-n-chips soaked in malt vinegar and salt, the horn of a ferry in the distance, and the smell of sea in the air.  There are seven of us laughing and throwing food to the gulls, the Sound sparkling and Mt. Rainier making a rare appearance in the distance.  I have my purple-haired sister beside me, and five beloved faces laughing around me, and I feel butterfly light as we wait together for the boat to go home.  It plays as a memory in my mind, but I know, without a doubt, that the painful happiness of it never happened.  That it’s just a dream I’ve dreamed so many times it has become reality.  And that, more than anything, tells me that maybe these nurses are right, that everything I hold as true is nothing more than a fever dream lurid with hope.  The pull of the ferry is so strong it is a heartbeat inside me, home, home, home, and it’s like a knife wound in my chest.  If I could find that place, if I could put feet on that pier and look out at the water, I know, I know, that all the fireflies sparking in my mind would blaze into permanent brightness and illuminate the confused, cobwebbed corners of my brain, connect the scattered pieces.  

Lachy, I whisper in my sleep, Lachy.

And they hear me, because they’re always listening.  They hear me, and they start coming for those memories too. 

Little Bird

Kavi

She was like a little bird, whom I was coaxing to come sit in my hand.  Bright-eyed and inquisitive, yet ready to take to the skies at the slightest breath.  Timid, but with a wildness running through her veins.  She thought herself a drab little sparrow, never realizing how exquisite she was.  There is beauty in the humble everyday, if you take the time to look.  She yearned to be a showy peacock, yet the sparrow has a shy grace, a softer loveliness that speaks of home.  The petals of a marigold are more joyous than those of a rose.

I shake my head.  I’m getting maudlin, and Maela doesn’t need a poetry-spouting idiot.  I can’t help with the search – not like I can offer Elizabeth some yoga lessons to gain her confidence, and I don’t have any special skills – but I can help those who do.  Our strange, inchoate fellowship had begun to fall apart.  Emlyn and Seef were existing on Pot Noodles and take-away, and the house was frankly starting to smell of unwashed socks and three-day-old Bombay Bad Boy.  Mind, body, and spirit – they are all connected.  Yoga isn’t just asanas and breathwork; diet and nutrition are equally as important.  So I started to take charge of meals, making sure there was bread, fruit, and yogurt in the kitchen along with the energy bars and coffee, and preparing dinner three or four times a week, emphasizing sattvic foods like vegetables, whole grains, and beans to promote a calmness and clarity of mind.  And I took charge of keeping the place tidy, doing the dishes, the vacuuming, the washing – not clothes – God, no, I’m not going to touch another man’s shreddies – but the towels at least. 

I look down at the onion I’m chopping and laugh ruefully.  My parents wanted me to become a doctor because it’s a well-paid, prestigious profession, something to brag about at dinner parties.  What would they say if they could see me now, in an apron?  But I like taking care of people, helping them to find balance.  I always have.  Yoga’s great for physical health, yes.  Weight loss and flexibility?  Sure.  But yoga also gives you more energy, boosts your immune system, helps you get a better night’s sleep.  God, I sound like an infomercial.  But yoga really does lower cortisol and lift your mood – here’s looking at you, dopamine!  What’s not to like, serotonin?  Oh, and did I mention that yoga improves your sex life?  Yup, those asanas boost testosterone.  Just call me Dr. Feel-Good. 

I snort.  Not such a namby-pamby, wishy-washy, tree-hugging napunsak now, am I?  My job literally raises sperm counts and sex drives.  If that doesn’t make me a “real man”, then I don’t know what does.  So what if I don’t like violence, if I get queasy at the sight of blood?  Not everyone’s built to think that slicing through skin and muscle, past the fat layer and down to the bone is fun.  Although, I scowl, I’d make an exception for Jorge.  He abandoned her.  He left her alone.  I don’t care if it was only for two minutes, if his crotch was dripping champagne and people were pointing and laughing.  He shouldn’t have left her side.  And now the cowardly moorkh has abandoned us.  Just took off.  Left a note for Emlyn on the kitchen table, resigning from MI5.  Doesn’t even want to help with the search.  We’re all hurting, chum.  We’re all going out of our minds with worry.  We’re all angry.  He has a gift that could actually help.  He could go into Gaia centers, read the staff, tell us if anyone seems suspicious.  What the fuck is wrong with him?

I slam my hand down on the side of the knife, smashing the garlic, imagining for a moment it’s that backstabber’s face.  I thought we were friends.  My mind wanders back to the first time I met him.  He’d signed up for a beginner’s yoga class, and right from the start I warmed to him.  I felt he was genuine, trying to go his own way but unsure of the direction.  Not that anyone but a fellow misfit would know.  He projected an air of calm confidence and wasn’t afraid to laugh at himself when he made a mistake.  It drew you in, that good-humored lack of pretension.  And he was kind.  I’d see him encouraging the students to either side of him – always older women, the sort who felt a bit self-conscious and wondered whether they’d made a mistake, if yoga wasn’t a little too daring, a little too new age, but wanted to try something different.  They made a beeline for him every time, which must have got on his nerves, but he always laughed at their jokes and bore their flirtations with a smile.  A flock of clucking hens round a stoic rooster.  We got to talking after that first class, and each recognized a kindred spirit, both a little odd, both foreigners in our own skins.  And we’d grab a beer together, hang out, chew the fat.  Men need friends too.  And no, not just a mate down the pub but someone you can sit down and set the world to rights with.

One evening, after a few drinks, he told me what he could do, how he could sense emotions, had done since he was a little boy.  I thought at first that he could just read a room, take the emotional temperature, so to speak, but, no, he could go beyond the surface.  Not deeply, he said, but enough to know.  He was diffident, watchful, but he must have thought that he could trust me.  And his opening-up let me do the same.  He was a good listener and a good friend, supported me when my parents were refusing to return my calls, those long months after I’d broken off my arranged engagement, told me I had to be true to myself, that their anger and embarrassment would gradually fade.  He helped me to acknowledge that my parents were just as much a product of their environment as I was, shaped by their upbringing and the values of the time in which they were raised.  Not everyone adapts easily to change.  But, deep down, he said, they loved me, and when the moment was right, they’d reach out.  And how did he know, I replied, when he’d never met them?  Because of the man you are, he said.     

A decent chap all-round, Jorge. Or so I thought.  And when we both fell for Maela… I tried to nip my feelings in the bud, just be friends, but I couldn’t help myself.  God, why didn’t I make love to her when I had the chance?  I could have held her in my arms and adored her with my body, shown her with my naked soul just what she truly was to me, something too deep for words.  I shouldn’t have waited, shouldn’t have honored the pact.  Honored.  I snort again.  It was a smokescreen for cowardice.  I can see that now.  The truth is: I wasn’t sure about the whole set-up, wasn’t sure I liked the thought of sharing her, that I was comfortable being one among many instead of the one and only.  One man with multiple women?  Sure.  That’s “traditional”.  But one woman with multiple men?  That was tough on the ego, didn’t fit with my worldview.  I shouldn’t have been so reactionary.  In my home country alone, polyandry – yes, there’s even a word for it – check out the brain on Kavi! – can still be found from Himachal Pradesh in the north to Tamil Nadu in the south.  From Africa to the Amazon from the start of recorded history.  I know: I looked it up, late one night when I couldn’t sleep, torn between Maela and my pride, trying to find some way to reconcile my feelings and my assumptions.  But I wavered and I dithered and I told myself “when the time was right”.  And now that time may never come.

“Snap out of it, Kavi,” I mutter to myself.  “Self-pity won’t help Maela.  You’re being selfish.  Stop wallowing and think.  Where would Kronos have taken her?  How can you find out?”  

I get started on the ginger, racking my brain.  Where wouldn’t Kronos have taken her?  And why can’t Babylon find her?  With all its resources, how can it still be floundering?  Can’t their agents hack Gaia's records, discreetly torture Fallon, maybe requisition a satellite or two?  And what about Babylon’s own psychics?  Surely, there must be someone with some extra-sensory skills, someone else like Maela?  I run through the list of psychic abilities I’ve learned.  Retrocognition would be ideal, but divination or even telepathy would be helpful, so that we could get a message out.  Or were the girls the only psychics Babylon had?  All this time and still no leads?  Does Babylon even want to find them?

The sound of the front door opening makes me tense.  The others are back, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll have news.  I flip on the kettle to boil the water for the lentils and go to the fridge, pulling out three beers, hoping against hope that we’ll have something to celebrate.  But the heavy tread of the footsteps coming down the stairs makes my shoulders slump, and I know that once again we’ll only be drowning our sorrows.  Good job I picked up a twelve-pack.

The door to the kitchen opens, and Emlyn walks in, skin almost as grey as his eyes, his pallor only emphasized by the midnight-blue suit.  The man looks ill, really ill, as if he’s wasting away, Salim mourning the loss of Anarkali, entombed alive.  Behind him, Seef looks like something the mongoose dragged in.  No, not just dragged in but dragged in, eaten, and regurgitated.  I hand them each a beer.

“No news?”

Emlyn shakes his head.  “I don’t understand.  There must be something we missed, some piece of video footage, a guest who saw something but didn’t realize its significance, someone who wasn’t on the invite list.  It was no more than a few minutes from when Jorge–” I glower, but he continues – “from when Jorge left her to when he reached the Beadle’s Office.  How could Kronos have spirited her out of the building without anyone seeing anything?”  Emlyn runs one hand distractedly through his hair.  “And Babylon are being cagey.  I wanted another round of surveillance on the Gaia board, see if we could find any leverage, and they said ‘no’.  I don’t understand.”

“I do,” Seef grunts.  “Walker’s been told to hold on Cole.”

Emlyn’s head snaps up.  “What!”

“Yup.  Just got off the phone with him.  I hadn’t heard from him for a few days, so I called him to see if they’d managed to uncover a lead and were chasing it down – only reason I could think of why he wouldn’t be in touch – and he said, and I quote, ‘we’re going to hold on Cole for the time being’.”

“‘Hold on Cole’,” I repeat, confused.  “What does that mean?”

“It means that Cole is leading the higher-ups around by their love-spuds.”  Seef snorts.  “Then Walker said he was concerned that they were developing tunnel vision, asked if we could interview Maela’s old neighbors again, see if they’d noticed anything suspicious when she was living there, if maybe she had had a stalker.”

“The line was being monitored,” Emlyn states flatly.  

Seef nods.  “Think he might have been overestimating Babylon’s stupidity there.  Not sure if they’re going to fall for the idea that we’re seriously entertaining one of the Twitter conspiracies.  To be fair, I did catch him off guard.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Emlyn rubs the bridge of his nose.  “They’ve been angling for access to Gaia’s formulas for months.”

“And Cole’s obviously been flashing them a glimpse of her knickers.”

“But what does this mean?” I ask again.  I’m feeling almost panicked.  If we can’t investigate Cole, how the hell do we find Maela?   

Emlyn grimaces.  “It means we start to look into the sightings in the South of France. Or Canada.  Or New Zealand.  Any tip, however wild.”

“But–”

He holds up one hand.  “While continuing to unearth every scrap of information on Cole and Gaia we can.”

Seef grins evilly.  “Remind me to check my spam folder in a few months.  Wouldn’t want management to think we were deliberately ignoring any orders that may or may not come in.”

“And what can I do?” I demand.  I feel bloody useless.  Normally, I don’t mind playing the supporting role, but if they tell me to keep giving yoga lessons while keeping my ears open, I’m going to give a demonstration of just how strong you have to be for the eight-angle pose.

“We’ve been focusing on the search for the girls,” Emlyn replies, “but they’re not the only ones missing.  Other women have been disappearing and turning up dead, with track marks and henna tattoos, almost like tags,” he muses.

Seef nods.  “We know that Tennireef’s involved.”

“And that Magda was using that low-life Ratko,” Emlyn’s mouth twists, “to traffic drugs and women.  Why?”

“Money?” I venture.

“But why?” Emlyn asks again.  “Cole’s independently wealthy.  And Gaia takes in millions through donations.”

“For some people, enough is never enough.”  Seef shrugs.

“Maybe.”  Emlyn doesn’t look convinced.  “Kavi, I need you to go through the files we have on the trafficking victims, starting with the group found in Seattle last November.  Did the techs ever find out what they were injected with?  And then everybody,  every body, inked with a Kronos tattoo.  An hourglass, an ouroborous, and a sickle.  Why these?  What do they mean?  Tennireef has two; Magda has three.  So, not just a tag, a stamp, if you will, but an indication of rank.  Symbols of the god, yes, but what do they mean for the organization?”

I stare at Emlyn.  “You want me to review the files?”    

“Why not?” he looks at me quizzically.

“I’m a yoga instructor.”

“You’re also a Babylon agent.”

“Who teaches yoga and wellness to real agents,” I counter.

Seef leans forward, eyes narrowed.  “What’s the problem?  Don’t you want to help?”

I give him a withering look.  “Don’t be stupid.”

“Kavi,” Emlyn interjects, “you may not be a traditionally trained agent, but you’re intelligent, you care about Maela, and you’re one of the very few people I can trust.”

I hold his gaze, absorbing his words, then nod slowly.  “I won’t let you down.”

“You’d better not,” Seef growls. “Or you’ll answer to me.”

“Right back at you, little man,” I say coolly.  “Bollocks up your end of things, and I’ll tie you up in a bright-pink bow and feed you to your baboons.”

Amazingly, he grins again and salutes me with his beer bottle.  “What’s for dinner, Wolfgang Puck?”

I shake my head.  The man’s an enigma.  “Masoor dal and rice.”

“Excellent.  Should keep all the jobsworths away for the next few days, and any lickspittles, if management’s having us monitored.”

“Unfortunately for you, ginger is a remedy for flatulence,” I reply, raising an eyebrow.

“Children, children!  It’s too early for scatological humor.  I haven’t even finished my first beer,” Emlyn groans.

“It’s never too early for fart jokes,” Seef and I answer in unison, smirking.

Emlyn mutters and rolls his eyes.  “Why me?” he asks the ceiling, “what did I do to get stuck with the hoi polloi?”

“You’re one to talk, Fartius Maximus.  Dropping one like that in the meeting with the top brass.  I thought the colonel was going to pass out.”

“You know very well that wasn’t me, Lady Flatulentia,” Emlyn retorts.

“He who denied it, supplied it,” Seef says wisely.

These two!  Looking at them, in their well-cut suits and moiré-silk ties, beveled watches, and leather briefcases by their sides, you’d never guess that behind the respectable exteriors lurked the hearts of two teenage boys who thought that Thunderpants was the height of comedy.  I feel a warm surge of camaraderie.  We make an unlikely team, but we’re united in our determination to rescue the girls and take down Kronos.  I know the two men before me, currently engaging in puerile banter, will be relentless in their pursuit.  And if a third face flickers before me, recalling happier, more innocent and blissfully ignorant times, I ignore it. 

Smoke and Mirrors

Walker

Every day.  Every fucking day.  And we haven’t been paying attention, because the rest of us are bogged down by Babylon and the shitshow that goes with it.  Jonah’s been lost in the darkness in his head, doing vaguely illegal things that the rest of us are closing our eyes to because it means we can monitor Tennireef.  Deo’s been running himself ragged hunting down leads, trying to feel like he has control over something in his life. And me?  I’ve been trying desperately to keep some kind of lines of communication open with Babylon, somehow stay in their good graces, so I don’t lose access to the little information I’m siphoning from them.  They’ve been sending me the equivalent of kindergarten coloring pages and asking me to stay within the lines, then praising me effusively for my work.  Great job, kiddo.  Well done!  And a fucking pat on the head.  Which, as the directive’s made clear, lets me know some shit I’m not clued in on must be happening behind the scenes. 

Lachy, though.  Fucking Lachy.  Just powering through, feeding the troops, running the house.  Doing whatever it is he does, while the rest of us are occupied doing whatever it is we do.  I never thought to ask, “Hey man, are you okay?” or “Do you need anything?” because he’s just so damn steady.  He’s just always there and always has things in order so our lives and work can continue uninterrupted by daily minutiae.  And until Deo asked him if he was alright, I didn’t realize how not alright he seems.  And until we talked about Kai’s crap taste in music – I listened to one of Deo’s CDs and came to the conclusion that, yeah, nobody’s perfect – I didn’t realize how long it had been since I’d heard him laugh.

So I started paying attention.  And the guy disappears every single morning.  How the fuck did we miss that?  How did we miss him just… just leaving?  I had assumed that he spent most of his days in the barn thing he calls his Shed.  Or running errands, or… I don’t even know.  I don’t know because I didn’t think about it.  And once I did, I realized – he’s not in his Shed.  He’s not at Gemma’s, fixing stuff.  He’s not by the dock or taking his car on errands.  He’s not in his room or the library or the entire freaking house.  He’s just… gone.  If he is around for the day, then he vanishes at night, once we’re all settled, unless we’re having a movie night or something.  It comes down to this – he’s there when he knows we need him, but otherwise, he’s gone.  

It’s not… it’s not good for him to be on his own so much.  It separates him from us, from feeling like he’s part of this as an equal, not just being used for his house and his food.  Whatever’s going on with him, he needs to know… I don’t fucking know.  He just needs to not feel like he doesn’t have a place here.  Not here at his house, but here with his team.

So tonight, after dinner, once Deo takes off on his run and Jonah heads up to his room, I pretend to start work.  Lachy cleans the kitchen, then leaves so noiselessly out the side door that I almost miss him.  At the last second, I catch a flicker of movement from the window and see his back vanishing into the woods at the far side of the house.  Jumping to my feet, I follow, already feeling two steps behind and cursing myself for my carelessness.  He moves surprisingly quickly and quietly for such a big dude, like a bear through the woods.  There are no straight lines where we’re going, just winding, blacktail-deer trails, barely noticeable in the thick undergrowth, the smell of new ferns and wet dirt heavy in the air.  Everything’s silent – too silent for the woods – but I’m by trade a tracker, so I shadow-step behind him, just observing.  He stops suddenly several times, cocking his head, as though he hears something, then continues on without ever turning around.  

I ghost his movements, certain my own are inaudible, any noise swallowed by the forest floor, but God damn he’s making me nervous.  Actively anxious, which is unusual for me in situations like this.  I was hired onto Babylon, and the FBI, largely based upon my ability to slide into places without being seen, to watch from a distance without being compromised.  It’s my specialty.  What I’m known for.  Literally the only reason I got chosen for the task force in the first place.  For a second, I lose focus, flashing back to when Kai and I first met.

Gomez was frowning.  “Donovan is here because, despite his attitude, he’s very, very good at blending in places and not being noticed.”

Kai shot me an appraising look and grumbled, “I don’t see how anybody could fail to notice him.”

And fuck, if the comment didn’t go straight from my head to my dick.  I should have known then.  Known that I was in trouble.  Especially because it only got worse when she growled, “Not how I meant it, Asshole.”

Suddenly all I could picture were her snarling lips pressed against my ear, biting out the sarcastic comment between panting breaths, and my brain shut down in complete confusion, astonished how everything went from zero to sixty with no warning.  

Ahead of me Lachy pauses again, then sighs, and I lean against a tree, quietly wondering what the hell he’s up to.  More importantly, the uneasy feeling that he knows I’m here keeps growing stronger, and I’m beginning to sincerely doubt my skills, because I’ve never felt more like the prey and less like the predator.  He hasn’t given any indication that he’s seen me, but Jesus Christ, he’s putting me on edge. 

It only takes five more minutes for any confidence in my tracking abilities to completely disappear.  ‘Cause I’m 99% positive he knows I’m following him and is trying to decide what to do about it.  I’m debating if I should just say something when he turns around, eyes laser locked on the place I hover, hidden in the shadow of large pines.

“You may as well come out, Walker.”  His voice is tired, resigned, and I feel bad for a minute that I’ve come here, uninvited.  But fuck it, I think mutinously.  We’re all in this together.  If something is wrong, we need to talk it out.  So rather than explain myself, I just casually try to pretend that everything is normal.

“Oh.  Heeeey man!”  The level of awkward I’m currently feeling ranks right up there with the time I let it slip to Kai how jealous I was of her and Jonah’s lunch dates together.  Christ.  My face flushes even now, thinking back to it.  Middle of a freaking assignment, and I was pouting about not hanging out with the cool kids.  The memory is so embarrassing it’s almost painful, and it’s made worse when Lachy doesn’t answer my cartoon-character greeting, just stares at me, unblinking, with his whiskey-colored eyes.  The silence stretches into a truly uncomfortable space between us, and the growing pressure has me rushing to fill the void.  “Soooo… what’s this place?”  I’m trying to keep my curiosity to a minimum, giving him his space to tell me, but I can’t help but wonder what is going on, and somehow the question comes out like a kindergarten teacher on speed.  

The last couple minutes led us down a long, barely there path to a small clearing at what I have to imagine is near the very edge of his property.  At the far end is a tiny, strange looking… I don’t even know what to call it.  A cabin?  A house?  It almost blends in with the land, so it’s difficult to tell.  The roof is sloped, almost curved, and has a stone chimney on one side. Under the chimney is a little angled area that may be the edge of a small kitchen.  There’s a tiny turret window that’s round with heavy glass on the corner nearest to what I assume is the door, but it’s like no door I’ve ever seen.  It’s bright yellow and completely round, with a knob set in the direct center of it.  The front of the cabin around the door is all field stone, and, honestly, the entire thing looks like it’s from a movie set or something.

“What is this place, man?” I ask again, confused but at least sounding like myself.  Mostly.

“It’s a hobbit house,” he replies, like that’s some kind of fucking answer instead of a bigger question.  

“A what now?”

He sighs and turns to face me.  “What do you want, Walker?  I assume you have a reason for joining me?” 

Frowning, I take in my surroundings before answering.  It took us maybe fifteen minutes to get here, through pretty heavy wood, moving slowly because the light is dying.  Even with all the twists and turns, I can tell that, in general, we followed the curve of the Sound, and there’s a tiny shimmer of water barely visible through the trees.  We didn’t see any other buildings or drives along the way, didn’t cross any property markers or boundaries, so I’m beginning to think the entire thing must belong to Lachy.  Which is a massive mind-fuck, to be honest.  I didn’t know the guy owned this much.  I mean, I knew he had a pretty-good-sized piece of land, but it’s hard to tell with his place.  The parts I’ve seen are walled off like fucking Fort Knox, but I assumed it was just around the immediate house and drive down to the girls’.  

Cocking my head thoughtfully, I can’t help but ask, “How much property do you own, man?”  Curiosity’s getting the best of me, and he sighs again.

“A lot.”  His voice is flat.  I’m clearly testing his patience, which I thought limitless.

“Like, ballpark for me?  Just a generalization – a ‘here to there’ thing?”

Silence.  Don’t you fall for it again, Walker.  You let him talk first.  You’re an agent of the FBI for Christ’s sake.  My little pep talk fails, because it goes on for way too long, and I finally blurt out, “Is it all fenced in?”

“Walker…”

“Shit man.”  I stumble a bit over my words, searching for what to say.  “I should at least know what we’re looking at for surveillance purposes.  We’re all…  I know it’s not how you imagined it, Lach, but we all live here now.  We’re all a part of this.”

“Not Maddox,” he says shortly, and I feel a stab in my gut for a second.  No, not Maddox.  I haven’t heard from him since he left, don’t even know if the guy is alive, and the weight of that on top of Kai being gone is almost crippling.   

I think Lachy sees it in my face, because he closes his eyes, shaking his head slightly, then inhales deeply and lets out a long, slow breath before coming over to me. Resting a giant hand on my shoulder in some semblance of comfort, he inclines his head toward the clearing. 

“Okay, Walker.  If we have to, we have to.  Let’s run through it.”  He lumbers over to a new tree-stump and sits down, motioning for me to sit on another nearby.  “What do you want to know.”  It’s not a question, more of a tired statement, like he knew this was coming but was trying to avoid it for some unknown reason.

“How big is your place?  What is this –” I motion to the tiny, newly built… hobbit house, I guess… at the edge of the clearing “– for? Why is everything fenced with this level of tech, man?  It’s… it’s not normal.  And I knew it wasn’t normal when I first came out here, but I thought maybe you just liked your privacy.  But now I’ve gotten a good look at the cameras you’ve got set up, the motion detectors…  This is some serious fucking shit, man.  And why do you keep coming out here?  What’s going on, Lach?”  My words tumble out in rapid succession, questions I didn’t even know had been bugging me.  His face hardens, hand tightening on the axe handle beside him, and I can feel my shoulders tense in reply.  The air is thick between us, and I suddenly realize I’m deep in the woods, alone, with a massive fucking guy who I’m quickly realizing has more secrets than I thought.  But Kai trusted… trusts, fuck Walker, trusts.  Don’t even…  Kai trusts Lachy with her life, so I’m going to do the same.  

“I come out here mostly to get a break from you all, so I can continue to function.  I still don’t shield well enough to be around your level of pain all the time.”  He waves off the apologetic look I shoot him.  “And I have eight acres.  Well, eight and a half.  I own the entire Point.”  

I let out a slow whistle between my teeth.  The entire Point…  “Shit man.  That is some fucking…”  I trail off, not sure where I’m headed with the statement.  But that’s… that’s a lot of fucking money.

He shrugs.  Shrugs, like eight-and-a-half, private acres on a tiny fucking island in Seattle is normal.  “It’s one of two private points on the island.  I just lucked out that it came on the market at the right time.”

I can tell it’s going to be like pulling teeth, but I’ll leave the fucker toothless if I have to.  We’re in this now, and curiosity is riding my back like a tiger.  Briefly my mind flashes to Seef, who has been rigidly silent lately, and I wonder what he’d say here.  A baboon on a stick or some shit, probably.  

“Okay.  Eight-and-a-half acres.  How much is fenced?  How is it fenced?  And why is it fenced?  Are there any holes or open areas?  Strategically, what are we looking at?  And why the fuck is it fenced like it is?”  The questions pour out of me, and he holds up a hand to stall any further words.

“The entire thing is fenced.  Double chain link with concertina wire at the top.  Perimeter detection with strain- and vibration-sensor cables mounted the entire way.  Infrared sensors and barriers.  Cameras in high-traffic or vulnerable areas.”

“Dude…  What.  The.  Fuck?!?”  And I’m trying, Christ I’m trying, but the guy has just casually laid out that he has perimeter protection running into at least a couple hundred thousand, like it’s nothing.  He shrugs again.  “And stop fucking shrugging, Lach, because this is some crazy-ass shit, and you’re not explaining anything.  You don’t even… Lach.  I love your work, and I know you’re talented, but what the hell?  Where… how… the sheer fucking cost, my dude!” 

“In order of your questions that are any of your actual business: like I said.  The entire thing is fenced.  No open areas.  No holes.  I’ll give you the access code to the cameras so you can get alerts.  As to why…” his face darkens, thunderstorm rage heavy, and I’m realizing this guy’s got some layers.  Like an onion, I hear Kai’s voice, clear as a fucking bell in my head, and I want to throw up for a minute but try to focus.  Lachy scrubs a hand over his face and sighs again.

“You have to understand…” he begins, and I feel the forest close in around us.  Nothing good ever began with you have to understand.  It’s like we need to talk or there’s something I have to tell you.  Wherever we’re going, we’re going somewhere dark.  He continues, “... when Kai moved out here, she was an injured rabbit.  She fell asleep scared.  She woke up scared.  She flinched when I moved too quickly, retreated into herself when I went by too often.  The only time I saw her smile, at all, was when she was in her own cabin with Gemma there.  It was slow going.  You think she’s a closed book now, Walker, you should have seen her then.  Skin and bones, looked exhausted all the fucking time…” his throat closes around the words, voice trailing off.  Lost in thought for a moment, he pauses, then takes a deep breath and pushes on.  “She was so sad.  And so lonely.  Like a street cat.  Wouldn’t take help from anyone.  She’d rather have drowned an inch from shore than trust someone to reach out and save her.  When she and Gemms first came to the cabin…”  Here his voice almost trembles, and he clears his throat.  This is a hard story for him, and whatever else is going on, I know in my bones that this guy would never do something to hurt Kai, and it relaxes the tightness inside of me.  He has his secrets, but if they don’t hurt Kai, then I can take whatever they are.  

His voice is low, deeper bass than usual, and I have to lean forward to hear any of what he’s saying.  “They got off the ferry, Gemma looking worried, Kai just hopeless.  And they both just stared at me with their big anime eyes, neither one speaking.  I finally just told them to get in the car.  And they had this kind of silent communication back and forth but wouldn’t move.  So I called over a friend to vouch for me, and something about it made Kai smile.  Just the tiniest hint of a curve of her lips, but it laid me out flat.”

And God damn if I don’t know that feeling.  Just the tip of her lips in the right direction is fucking devastating.  I know what that would do.

“We drove out to the cabin, and the girls didn’t say a word.  Kai was gripping Gemma’s hand the whole way, and Gemma was trying to calm her down.  You would have thought it would have been the other way – here you had this tiny pixie of a girl, and then a taller, clearly tougher one, but Gemma was obviously the leader, and the big sister in the situation.  The cabin wasn’t as nice then – I thought I’d maybe rent it to another guy, have a second set of hands and eyes on the property in case I needed some help with something.  I didn’t really want girls, to be honest.  I have sisters…  I love them, man, but they’re always needing something.  True story – once my little sister called me over because there was a, and I quote, ‘giant, hairy spider the size of a dinner plate’ in her kitchen.  I rushed over… a twenty-five-minute drive… and she’s on top of a chair in the kitchen staring at a dime-sized, baby spider on the floor.  And then doesn’t want me to kill it, just move it outside because it’s not the spider’s fault that she’s scared of it.”  Lachy smiles softly at the memory, and I can’t help but echo it.

“Sounds like she’d get along with Kai,” I say, and he nods.

“Oh, they love each other.  Her and the kids adore Kai.  Anyway, I just didn’t think I wanted more girls.  So the cabin was pretty basic.  But they got out of the truck and looked like they were going to cry at the sight of it.  I didn’t even get why they were both so sad when they saw it, other than I knew it had to be fixed up a little, so maybe they were disappointed?  And they didn’t say a word as I showed them around, just kind of got progressively sadder and sadder.  And I was getting pretty annoyed, I don’t mind telling you, because it wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t a hellhole either, so I had no idea what they were so upset about.  But then Gemma went off to take one last look around and left Kai and I together on the porch.  And she… Walker… she looked so lost.  She looked devastated.  And I realized all of a sudden that she wasn’t disappointed in the cabin; she was miserably desperate and trying not to show it.  They both were.  And they were too afraid to actually want the place because for some reason they needed it so much.  So I… I kind of just… gave it to them.”

“When they moved in, Gemma had okay furniture, nothing to write home about, but Kai’s was literally duct taped together.”  His voice is angry at the memory.  “I strong-armed them into accepting some bedroom sets and a table.  But it didn’t help the way I wanted it to.  Kai still looked hollowed out all the time – I could see the veins under her skin.  If one of my sisters looked like that, I’d kill the man who caused it.”  He pauses and shakes his head a little. “The first thing my mom would do if she saw someone looking like that is feed them.  So I started having them up for Sunday dinner.  It kind of worked – Gemma and I would chat, but Kai would curl up quietly in the corner the whole time, just listening, walls a mile high.  She wouldn’t smile or talk… she’d only eat if I pushed the food in front of her.  Just waiting, waiting for something bad to happen.  Every movement had to be slow around her, or she’d flinch back, collapse further into herself.  And I noticed Gemma was careful around Kai, too.  She was never too loud, never touched Kai too much…  It was a dance around her.  And we just didn’t know why.  But as much as Kai wouldn’t take anything, she gave all the time.  She’d make Gemma meals, drop extra off on my doorstep, clean Gemms’ workspace.  If I did something at their house – just normal landlord stuff – the next day I’d find my porch swept and my tools put away, or the area around my front walk weeded.  She’d always do the dishes after dinner, clean up the room no matter how often I told her she didn’t have to.  She’d restack the firewood if we had a fire.  Straighten the cushions on the chair where she sat so there wasn’t evidence that she’d been there.  She wanted to impact us as little as humanly possible.  Didn’t want to cause any trouble, at any point.”

The thought of Kai never wanting to cause trouble is foreign to me.  All she is is a bundle of fucking trouble.  Lachy sees the thought flash across my face and smiles reluctantly.  “Hard to believe, I know.”  He shifts, rolling his massive shoulders, then bends his head forward.  “And then, not too long after they moved in, she and Gemma showed up at my door ungodly early, covered in sugar and flour and butter, and Gemma looked a little wild around the eyes.  Kai was folded in around a plate of food, and I was confused as hell.  ‘Kai’s been baking!’ is all Gemms said, and I could tell, for whatever reason, it was a make-or-break moment.  So I just took the dish and ate every single thing on that plate.  Thank God she’s a good cook.  And decided in that instant that whatever Kai was running from, I’d help keep her safe, however I could.  So I invited them in and told them I was going to do some work around the property.  It was kind of a split-second decision.  We’d start by fencing the close areas – I told them it was just for aesthetic purposes.  Don’t know if Kai heard a word, though, ‘cause she curled up in her usual corner and, for the first time since I met her, fell asleep.  Like, a deep sleep, Walker.  And Gemma and I talked, and then Gemma left, and Kai kept sleeping.  And she slept until late afternoon.  When she finally woke up, she was frantic.  Kept apologizing, over and over, until I finally grabbed her hands and just told her flat out, ‘I’m glad you’re here.  I like you here.  Okay?’  And Walker, man…”

He’s pushing now, jaw jutting out, staring at the sky through blurry eyes.  “Christ.  She said ‘okay’ back, and she smiled.”  The cracks are showing in the big man now, a fine tremble running down his body, and I realize that, as much as Lachy has made a show of keeping his shit together, he’s as close to coming apart as the rest of us.  He’s just hiding it better.  But Lachy is on the edge and close to falling over, and this memory is shoving him toward that edge.  “She smiled that smile of hers where her cheeks are squished up, and her eyes sparkle, and… that was it for me.  That moment was it.  There was no going back.  There is no going back.”  He sits up suddenly and looks more serious.  “I changed my plans – I’d already told them I was going to fence.  But I decided to make it a bit more secure.  Which is where the chain link and concertina started.  I thought maybe she was running from something or someone.  I wasn’t sure; I just wanted her to feel… safe, I guess.”

The thunderstorm returns to his face, and all of the softness from Kai’s name melts away.  “But when she started the job with the SPD, things got worse.  She had bad people angry with her.  A lot of them, and all the time.  Kai and Hideo went after the worst of the worst – they left the mild offenders for anyone else.  Kept the monsters under the bed for themselves.  And sure.  Some of them went to prison.  Some sent angry notes…” He swallows hard, like he’s remembering something he read.  “Disgusting messages, describing in detail… well.  She had her bike egged.  She was threatened on a consistent basis.  People really don’t like when you mess with their family, even if how they treat their family is the reason they’re in trouble.  But Kai was a warrior for her kids and didn’t care who she pissed off in the process.  She wasn’t gentle at all.  She didn’t hesitate, had no finesse.  If you hurt your kid, in any way, she was going to take you down, whatever it cost her.  And she and Deo were good.  Really good.  But occasionally they’d go after the wrong person – I don’t mean the wrong suspect.  I mean people who had contacts or were involved in things far beyond child abuse.  One of those people found out where Kai lived.  And he came to the island and hunted her down.”

I have to force myself to keep breathing.  “What happened, Lach?”  I want to know, but I don’t want to know, because I’ll have blood on my hands the instant he tells me the rest of the story.  I will wear my feet to bone tracking down any asshole who tried to hurt her.  “What am I going to have to do?”

“You don’t need to do anything, Walker.  The guy’s not a problem anymore.”

“You don’t know that.  People get released from prison early all the time; or something sparks in their memory, and they come looking again for whatever reason.  He knows where she lives.  Why wouldn’t he come after her again?  I want a name.”

Lachy looks up at me carefully and says evenly, “I do know that.  If I say he’s not coming back, he’s not coming back.”

I hear the meaning behind his words and reassess, reassess, reassess.  

“I don’t know if you know, Walker, but I grew up in the 7th Ward in New Orleans.”  He says it almost casually, like it doesn’t mean anything, but leaves no room for questions, so I don’t ask any.  “I got out because of football and pulled my family out with me.  Stayed out because I discovered I was actually good at school.  And my parents did as much as they could for us growing up to keep us safe, so there were levels I never reached.  But the version you’re seeing of me now isn’t what always existed.  I’ve had to work hard for the peace I’ve found in life, and I take great offense to anyone who tries to fuck with that.”

“About seven, eight months after Kai took that job, my front camera went off at 2am.  When she and Gemms first moved out here, I had a gate across my road with cameras for deliveries and such.  I didn’t have anything else heavily secured – at the time I’d just put in the initial chain link and concertina.  And the only reason I was awake at that time, the only reason I heard the camera chirp at all, was because I’d been working on a huge order and had forgotten to eat dinner.  Just before midnight Kai stumbled over in her pjs with a pot of chili and some bread, kicked open the door to my shed, and commanded me back to the main house.  She made me eat, we had a picnic by the fire, and I made her go to sleep in her room here, because I didn’t want her walking back at that hour by herself.  She was half-asleep anyway and didn’t fight it.  So I was a little more… aware… of things, because she was at my place.”

I nodded.  Christ, I know how that feels.  She walks into a room, and you can feel it in your blood.  If Kai’s nearby, there are times no one else exists.

“I checked the camera and noticed the edge of a car, pulled off the road in the woods.  And just every alarm in me went off.  I didn’t see anyone, so I figured I’d check the car first.”  His face tightens, jaw clenched, and, even knowing everything is okay, that Kai made it through safe, I’m vibrating with anxiety over what’s coming.  “The fucker had… Christ.  Walker, the shit in the trunk of that car.  Duct tape, ropes, bagging, a butane torch, cuffs…”  He shudders, face nauseous.  “And some other…  I can’t even think about it.  It wasn’t going to be pretty, and it wasn’t going to be quick.  The trunk was lined with plastic.”

My knuckles are white, and I want to say something, but I can tell how much effort it’s taking for Lach to tell me this story, so I keep my mouth shut.  Kai would be impressed with me, I think ruefully, and it’s a gut punch again.  I scrub my hand across my face.  I’m tired and can feel it in every piece of me.  This isn’t enough.  This version of half-life without her here… it’s not enough.  I don’t have the energy to chase down the thought, and Lachy's still talking.  “... found a cut bit in the fence and followed him down to the girls’ cabin.  He didn’t know the woods as well as I do though, so I caught up to him pretty quickly.  Just about a hundred yards from their place, still in the tree line.  The guy was masked, clearly professional in the way he moved, had a bag on him and a couple knives.”

“What… what happened?” I ask, against my better judgment. 

“Oh. Well.”  Lachy’s words are studiously relaxed.  “I just asked him a few questions, nicely.  Found out why he was there.  Turns out Kai had been the lead on a case where he was exposed for hurting his kids.  The boys were running drugs for him at seven, eight years old.  The girls…” Lachy pauses and shakes his head.  “She got the kids taken away, and he took offense.  Was looking to exact a little revenge before he got put away for a long time.”

“Lachlainn.  I – where is the guy?”  I’m not even sure what I mean by the question.  

A quick, fierce grin that I haven’t seen before flashes across Lachy’s face in the dying light of the sun.  “Not here anymore.”  

“Were you careful?”  My voice has dropped to an almost whisper.  Lachy has a shit-ton of faith in me to be talking to me like this.  He hasn’t said anything… not exactly… that would implicate him in anything.  No names.  Never explicitly said he did anything… but Christ in fucking heaven.  I’m an agent of the FBI.  I’m a field op for Babylon.  I have commitments and loyalties that should come before this brotherhood.  They clash against each other inside me, waves against rock, and all of a sudden I realize I’m headed toward some choices I didn’t know I would have to make.  We’ve all been towing the line drawn in the sand by Babylon, and each of us has been following a secondary playbook issued by the FBI or CDS or SPD.  But Lachy’s not a player on the field and has no loyalties other than his own.  

“Was I careful?” he asks, cocking his head to the side, amusement lacing his words.

My voice drops lower, almost not a sound in the twilight settling around us.  “What did you do with the weapon?  Is it… is it something we need to worry about?”  

The grin flashes again, vicious and dark.  “What weapon?” he asks, flexing his massive hands and cracking his knuckles.  “Now why on earth would I need a weapon, Walker?”

And I realize in an instant that I’ve been seeing things all wrong.  Lachy doesn’t need a weapon.  Lachy is a weapon.  His unease from moments before wasn’t because he was about to tell me a story about having to… handle… an intruder on his property.  His unease was at the memory of Kai being in danger, nothing else.  There’s no regret in his face or tone, no guilt or sadness or sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.  Our gentle giant, calm and placid in the face of everything that has happened, our quiet leader despite not even being on the team – there’s not an ounce of that softness showing now.  Just intense satisfaction at a job well done. 

“Lachlainn…”  I don’t even know what to ask, don’t know if it’s a question or a statement, approval or indictment.  “Have there been others?”

“Well, now, Walker.  People come out to visit every now and again.  But they find that the island isn’t to their liking and never stay long.  This life isn’t for everyone, you know.”  He stares directly at me across the clearing, eyes cold and steady.  “Like I said.  I’ve fought hard for the peace I’ve achieved in my life.  And Kai can’t find that peace without a little help and a little space.  I consider it a bit of an honor to give her the space she needs to find her own quiet.”

“And the rest of us?”  

“You’re family now, brother.  And my land is your land, my house is your house, my hearth is your hearth.  And we’ll just keep our home safe and secure together, no?”

I’m nodding before I realize I’ve made the decision.  

“That’s enough talking for today, though.  I’ve got work to do before I sleep.”  He smiles sadly, all the ferocity from moments before gone.  “One of Kai’s favorite poems.  ‘The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep.’”  He pauses, staring at the little cabin in front of him, and says, almost under his breath, more of an exhale than anything, “... ‘and miles to go before I sleep’.”   

Kicked-Out K’s

Kailani

I’m feeling like Ann-with-an-e Shirley today, because I can’t find the right type of pen, and if anything is going to drive me absolutely batshit crazy, this is it.  I can hear my teeth grinding against each other and have to force myself to take a breath, because the migraines that come on the days where I clench my jaw are incapacitating.  It’s Tuesday, Tuesday, no good news day, which means it’s time for me to “Journal on a Journey Towards Mental Health”, and I swear to fucking God if I can’t find my good pen that I know for fucksure that I left on top of my bookcase, I’m going to lose my shit.  

Breathe, Kai, breathe.  The voice in my head has been a real fucking bitch lately, but I listen to it, because… well, I don’t have anyone else to listen to.  I’m all alone.  Always alone.  What is that song again?  Alllll by myyyyyseeeelf!  The voice sings the answer to me, but it just pisses me off, because I don’t want a song, I want a freaking pen and can’t fin–  Did you check that it didn’t fall behind the bookshelf? the voice interrupts, and of course I fucking checked, but I’ll do it again if it makes it shut u– oh!  There it is!  Marginally happier now, I grab the newest journal to record the uneventful events of the week. 

I’m supposed to write in three layers.  “Like a cake, Kai!” Enid always says in her poison-happy voice, the carbon monoxide of human beings.  “You like cake, don’t you?”  You know I fucking do, Enid.  But you also know we don’t get cake here.  Which always makes her comments that much worse.  She’s somehow both innocuous and deadly, guiding me through the mazes of “mental health stability”.  I have prescribed steps to follow – Christ on a cracker, do I have steps.  Steps for waking up, making my bed, combing my hair.  How to brush my teeth, how to walk down the hall, how to sit in Group.  My entire life here is like that little game where you’re frantically trying to put the yellow shapes into their places before the timer runs out and the pieces pop.  If ever there were a game to drive anxiety-prone kids crazy, it’s that one.  

The steps for journaling are “journal your past (where you’ve been), journal your present (where you are), journal your future (where you want to be)”.  The easiest is where I want to be, because the answer is anywhere but here.  They’re never too happy with that; they want concrete answers.  I think “getting the hell out of dodge” is a concrete answer.  And even those journal headings have sub-categories; “journal your past” means that I should record everything I think I remember, and then routinely compare it with what I’ve previously written.  They want me to put every detail of an imagined life onto paper – the way someone’s green eyes look like forest moss, the way someone’s laugh sounds like happiness and the ocean – everything.  We’re looking for the break – the moment my mind changed train tracks, went left instead of right at the railroad switch.  If we can pinpoint that moment, then we can backtrack and get me on the correct path, I guess.  Apparently, I can’t “move through the delusions and reconnect with myself” unless I “fully acknowledge the alternative world” I’ve created for myself.  So I’m given time, every week, to record what I remember about Babylon, about my… the team, about Gomez and the SPD and Seattle.

The idea is that, in writing it down, I will somehow realize and acknowledge how preposterous my persistent fantasies are and Occam’s razor that shit.  Or, as Enid likes to say, “Use the principles of parsimony.  You can’t argue with science.”  

Little do they know I can actually argue with anything.  It’s one of my talents – not to brag.

Enid’s lips are prune tight more often than not lately, though.  It almost makes me laugh to think about how bonkerballs last week’s entry must have driven them – “Babylon, Babylon, Babylon – Sunday all the lights of London shining, sky is fading red to blue…”  I wonder how long it took them to realize I was quoting David Gray.  They are getting progressively more frustrated with my pages of song lyrics, of random quotes, of poetry.  Even if they never acknowledge that they’re reading what I’ve written, I know they pour over the words, looking for hidden meanings in every line.  The Group session after my Robert Graves entry was fucking hilarious.  Seeing Enid try to find a way to work “Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves, Drag their treasures from the shelves.  Jack the Giant-killer's gone, Mother Goose and Oberon, Bluebeard and King Solomon. Robin, and Red Riding Hood Take together to the wood, And Sir Galahad lies hid In a cave with Captain Kidd” into the conversation was the highlight of my week.  

“Tell me, Kailani.  Do you ever feel like you are… oh, I don’t know.  Let’s say a fairytale character?  Or perhaps Guinevere?  Or someone similar?”

“I do,” I nodded seriously, and her eyes lit up like the cat that got the cream.  “I feel like the boy in the iron mask.  Wrongfully imprisoned.  Hugh Laurie could tie me up any day though.  Rawr.”

Her answering hiss of frustration was absolutely delightful.  Even if everything that followed sucked.  

“We can’t help you if you don’t let us in.  The characters in your imagination are representatives of past trauma, and discussing them can help you heal.  Tell us about them.  Tell us.  Tell us.”  

As if I’d give them the keys to my heart without compulsion.  As if I’d guide them like the robin, show them where the ivy lies over the locked gate.  Every time they ask me, I add a few layers of barbed-wire fencing around the secret, silent place I keep my dreams.  The gentle guidance about what to write has been more heavy handed in the past few Group sessions, and the emphasis on “cooperating as an active participant in my personal growth” has been… uncomfortable. 

Journaling in general always makes me vaguely uncomfortable though.  I’m encouraged to re-read past entries as often as I want, which is pretty freaking often since there is nothing else to do here.  I lost garden “privileges”; there’s no TV, no radio; and after a “distressing incident” a couple weeks ago (which I can’t remember the details of, but I’ve been told about often enough that I can almost picture it), I haven’t been let back into the library.  So, nothing but me and my thoughts, literally and figuratively.  I’ve read the various journals back to front and front to back – each year marked with its own faded, black-leather cover.  It’s all in my handwriting – I’d recognize the slanted, sharp lines anywhere – and if I travel back far enough, I can see evidence of when I experimented with (embarrassingly enough) dotting my i’s with hearts.  There is also a journal from my “swoopy letters” period, my “tiny letters” experiment, the year where I only printed, the year where I tried calligraphy…  I know the history of my writing because it was the history of my life.  The hearts were from my adoption year, when I had a little more hope.  The swoopy letters from a short period when I had an overwhelming crush on a boy who would say “hello” to me in the bus line.  The only one who spoke to me that year… everyone else avoided me like the plague.  Some “not like other girls” girl whose daddy was a police officer had heard some stuff she shouldn’t have and spread it around school.  No one wanted to be friends with a girl who had been rehomed as many times as I had.  The calligraphy was in homage to a tenth-grade history teacher who loved the Revolutionary War and who told me that, like Hamilton, I could make something different of myself than what was given to me.  He believed in my possibilities.  The tiny letters were from the end of my junior year and my senior year, when the family I was with wouldn’t give me money for school supplies, and I had to conserve paper, because I was too embarrassed to ask for help from my teachers.

But none of that history is reflected in the journals’ contents.  Hearts are there, slants, and swirls, but no middle-school crush or Revolutionary War or Daddy’s girl – not in the same way.  The crush is there, but he was another patient.  The War is there, but it was a tutor.  The girl is there, but she was an ex-roommate.  A catalog of my time at Mt. Ida, the things I’ve done here, people’s names and events I don’t completely recognize, just the outlines of.  In therapy we’ve discussed it – retrograde amnesia of some sort – they don’t really understand it all – how reality has been replaced over the years with a complex dreamworld that, apparently, I refuse to leave.  It is all there, clearly outlined in my voice, in my hand, tiny details that highlight the landscape that formed me – favorite outfits, favorite toys, childhood traumas, childhood nightmares.

It is almost perfect.  It almost makes sense.  But, and there’s always a but, isn’t there?  But, someone does not know all my secrets.  Someone has not found all of my hidden corners or emptied all the cupboards, because, because I have patterns like a puzzle that you’d never know, that no one knows.  There are habits I do not understand; I’m so far from the history that should connect me to them.  But when I am writing in my mandatory journal hour each week, every thirteenth page, I add an extra little kick-out to one of the k’s on the page.  Just a tiny thing, barely there, and only I can tell the difference.  I don’t know why I do it – my hands move without my mind’s permission sometimes.  And these are the things that tap-tap-tap at my brain rapid-fire quick, a woodpecker drilling holes in the foundations of who I am.  

Let me tell you a story, my brain whispers, and I sit like a child at attention, drifting away into the memory like a feather on the wind.  Not much ties me to the ground these days.  Almost all of my strings have been cut.

I watch the scene from a distance.  A younger version of me wanders into a vaguely familiar room, long black hair a mess, eyes heavy with sleep, taking cautious, guarded steps.

“What are you doing, Mr. Lucian?”  My voice is hesitant.  I have not found my feet in my new house yet, with my new parents.  The word itself is strange, as though “parent” is a thing you can replace at will.  But none of these are things a seven-year-old Kai thinks of – she is just small and scared and so very much alone.  

His voice is hot-chocolate warm.  “Just unwinding, kiddo.  Watching a show.”  He pauses, then says carefully, casually, “You can call me whatever makes you comfortable, Kai, but when and if you’re ready, we can come up with a special name that you choose for me.  If you’d like.  It doesn’t have to be Dad…”  He sees the shiver that runs through me and hurries on.  “You could call me… hmmm… Dinosaur Pants!”  His words are teasing, and I can feel myself unwrapping, the corner of my mouth twitching a little.  Kids are so fucking easy.  They’re so ready to love and so willing to throw everything into someone else.  For such a short period of time, we’re all open doors and see-through windows.  At some point, we all lock our houses up tight, though, don’t we?  Closed and shuttered.  “Or maybe… let’s see.  Oh!  Alligator!  That way you can say, ‘see ya’ later, Alligator’, when I drop you off at school, and I’ll call you…”

“Crocodile?” I ask cautiously, and he fake-frowns.

“Crocodile?  I was going to say ‘Fish’.  Then I’ll yell back, ‘If you wish, Fish!’  Because that’s how it goes, right?”

“That’s not how it goes!”  A little fire enters my voice, and I unwrap further, taking small steps toward him.  “It’s ‘In a while, Crocodile!’”

“What?  Are you sure?”

I nod.

“Who knew?  My whole life is a lie!”  He sounds astounded, and it makes me giggle, which, in turn, softens his face.  “I like seeing you happy, kiddo.  What are you doing up this late though?”

I point to the TV.  “I could hear the sound.  What is it about?”

“Aw shoot.  I’m sorry, Kai.  Still getting used to the new setup.  I’ll turn it down.  It’s a show about codes and ciphers.  About their history.”  I climb up onto the couch, carefully leaving him space, and he passes me a blanket.  “You gonna watch it with me?  I’d love to have a TV buddy.  Your Mo– I mean, Marian, doesn’t like documentaries, so I’m left all on my lonesome.”

“It sounds cool.”

“It’s SUPER cool, Kai.  Tell you what, I’ll make some popcorn, we’ll watch this episode, and then bedtime.  Okay?  Don’t tell your – don’t tell Marian I let you stay up late.”

“Okay, Alligator.”

His smile was blinding.  “Okay, Fish.”  I threw a pillow at him, and he caught it, waving a fist at me in mock outrage.  “Watch it, you!  Or you get plain popcorn, no butter!”

So we watched the show on codes, and I fell in love with secrets and ciphers, with hidden messages and concealed keys.  And Lucian fed into it, leaving me little notes in my lunchbox that, if I figured out, would earn me an extra scoop of ice cream or piece of candy.  It was our game.  And when I would journal, as recommended by my case worker, I pretended like I was a spy, so every time I’d use a secret way of marking my letters that I invented.  On every thirteenth page, I’d curl one ‘k’ up, just slightly, somewhere on the page.  And I did it in every single journal I’d ever written.  

But none of these journals have my kicked-out k. 

Exactly, Kai.  My mind whispers.  Figure it out.  Figure it out.

Taking a huge stack of the books, I move from the floor by the little bookshelf to my bed.  17 of them, meaning I’ve been here since I was 11.  After my time with my adopted parents, the Prices.  So those memories, the ones of me and Lucian watching spy documentaries, should be real.  Which makes my kicked-out-k-in-my-journals memory real.  Put the pieces together.  Edges first, then fill in the middle.  Hurry, Kai.  Hurry. 

Repeating the timeline they have beaten into me under my breath, I begin.  “Born.  Stayed with Mom and Dad until I was five, almost six.”  Swallowing hard, I push on.  “Into an orphanage.  Sorry, a ‘group home’.  Adopted at 7 by the Prices.  Returned at 8 for being defective.”  This one has broken pieces.  It wasn’t in the purchasing agreement.  Still under warranty.  “8–11 in the system.  No good things happen in the system.  And then, then I came here.”  Grabbing the oldest journal, I open it, flipping through carefully.  Here is my arrival; here is my first week.  Here my first Group experience.  A new friend.  A favorite book.  All the pieces of me written down in careful, misspelled words scattered uncaringly across lined pages.  But, but, no curled k, anywhere in the book.  

I check the next journal and the next and the next.  Nothing.  Nothing until the newest journal, which has, like clockwork, a tiny extra flourish somewhere on every thirteenth page.  And that memory told to me like a story, that memory should be true, because it was in the before.  So why… why… my brain hurts, and I try to push through, to connect dots that flash before my eyes, my forehead furrowing, hands pressing against my face.  Think, Kai, think.

A sweet, overly concerned voice breaks into my snake-pit brain.

“Kailani!  Oh my goodness.  Are you alright?”

Some random nurse hurries to my side.  There are so many these days I don’t bother to learn most of their names.  

“Just a migraine,” I manage to grind out through clenched teeth.  

She looks blurrily concerned.  “Hey.  Let’s get your bed cleared off, and I’ll grab you some paracetamol.”  I flinch.  I don’t know why.  “It’s okay.  I’m sorry.  That’s just Tylenol for you Americans.”  She picks up my journals and starts to put them away.  “Oh, that’s right!  It’s journal day.  Well, you can always finish up later.”  Glancing over her shoulder at me, she cocks her head curiously.  “Are you taking a tour down memory lane?”

I shrug.  “It just…”  Don’t give away your secrets, Kailani.  The voice in my head is firm, and I snap my mouth shut.  “I’m going to sleep now.”

She comes over and gives me two small, white tablets with some water.  “Take those, and then rest for a bit.”  I’ve learned that there’s no use fighting.  The pills will go in, one way or another, and I have to choose my battles carefully.  The nurse tucks me in, a little too tightly, and feels my forehead with a gentle hand.  I hate to be the one to break it to her, but crazy doesn’t give you a fever.  The push-pull here of harsh and gentle will wash you away from yourself if you’re not careful.  “If there’s an issue, please come tell us next time.  You don’t have to struggle through these headaches, dear.  We have medication to help.”

Medicine on top of medicine on top of medicine.  The clouds are already edging my vision, and they’re covered in tiny, singing cherubim, all shaking their shimmering, feathered wings to the beat.  “Can you give me pills, can you give me memory pills, can you pay my automo-bills, if you do then maybe we can chill…” I mumble along tunelessly, and her brow creases with worry.

“Kailani?”

“It’s Beyonce, Bitch.  Oh wait, it’s Britney, Bitch.  But it’s Beyonce.  Destiny’s Child, anyway.  Children.  Destiny’s Children.  Kelly and Michelle should have known.  From the group name.  Amirite?  I should know.  From the k’s.  If there’s only one child in the name of the band, you know it’s Beyonce.  Sorry for calling you a bitch.”  My voice drifts away.  It takes too much effort to form the words.  Tylenol my ass.

I can’t see anymore; the clouds have become a black storm behind my eyelids, but I hear the nurse quietly radio someone.  “... adjust the dose… the headaches are incapacitating… something with the journals…”

I don’t wake again until the next morning, only vague recollections of the previous day in my head.  The journals, my mind whispers.  You were almost there.  The journals.  

Moving quietly from bed, I pad silently to my bookshelf and pull the first journal from the rest, flipping through it again.  What am I looking for?  What was it?  The k’s.  Just check the k’s.  Find your way back.

But I should know by now that the voice in my head is a liar.  I should know that she’s a snake in the grass.  

Because every thirteenth page has a curled k, just like it should.  A little curled k somewhere on the page, hidden away in my secret cipher.  And every journal I check has it there, just right.  Just how I remember.  I shouldn’t believe me anymore.  I don’t think I’m trustworthy.  

And snip.  Another string is cut.

FEBRUARY

“Who are you?” said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation.

Alice replied, rather shyly, “I—I hardly know, Sir, just at present—at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”

“What do you mean by that?” said the Caterpillar, sternly. “Explain yourself!”

“I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir,” said Alice, “because I am not myself, you see.” 

⁓ Lewis Carroll

Old Friends, New Faces

Maela

I stop at the door of my room.  Two beds.  There are two beds.  And a bookcase.  A bookcase!  With shelves.  For books.  A wave of happiness suffuses me.  I’ve only been allowed to borrow one book at a time from the library.  A bookcase is promising.  It implies that I’ll need room for more than just one tome.  Multiple storylines.  Multiple people to meet.  And multiple places to go.  Sometimes, you only want vanilla ice cream.  Sometimes chocolate.  Sometimes strawberry.  And that’s OK.  One flavor at a time.  I get that.  But sometimes… sometimes you want a bowl of Neapolitan.  Although, I chew on the end of my braid, does anyone really want the strawberry?  Isn’t that the flavor that’s always left?  I give myself a sharp shake.  My mind’s wandering again, and I need to focus on what’s here, right now, in front of me.  A bookcase.  Hot damn!  My eyes roam eagerly over shelves, mostly empty but for a stack of journals, but that’s OK.  There’s room to fill.  Then I frown.  The plain, black spines are out of alignment!  Messy, messy, messy.  And why doesn’t the bed nearest the door have hospital corners?  I stare at it accusingly.  That’s just… wrong.

I’m sitting on my bed, on my hands, trying unsuccessfully to meditate and ignore the rumpled coverlet opposite, when the door opens.  Feeling a little self-conscious, I look up to see Kailani hovering on the sill.  Like me, she’s wearing a long, foam-green top and loose-fitting trousers, with soft, white sneakers.  I’m gawping and know I’m being rude, that I should look away or smile and say hello, but… she’s just… there.  After all these weeks, I’ve half-wondered if I’d made her up too.  But she’s just as I imagined her.  Thinner, maybe, and her skin is old wax, not cinnamon-dusted honey.  She looks as tired as I feel.  But her eyes are the ebony I’ve seen in my dreams, and her hair hangs long in a braid down her back.  

“Kailani?” I whisper, finally finding my voice.  She glances up, and I catch my breath, sure that some message will pass between us.  You’re you and I’m me, it will say.  We’re not crazy; we’re not damaged.  We’re fucked beyond all recognition, sister, but now that we’re together, we’re going to get out of here.  I look into her eyes and see… nothing.  No sign of the vibrant woman I remember.  She’s listening to a melody only she can hear, simple panpipes played by a zephyr, and her head is bobbing in time to the soundless beat.

“Kailani,” I try again, urgently, fiercely.  “Kailani!”  Her eyes slide over me, unseeing, and fix on the small, round window high in the wall.  She’s smiling faintly now, and I don’t understand.

“Come along, dear,” a voice behind her chides.  “In you go.”  One of the nurses guides Kailani into the room, steering her by the shoulders, and sits her down on the bed, where she stays, hands folded neatly in her lap but her head still gently swaying.

“Kailani!”  I’m desperate now, the fragile hope I’d nurtured withering, leaving famine in its wake.  “What have you done to her?” I blurt out, unable to censor myself.

The nurse looks at me sharply.  “Watch your tone, missy.”  

“She’s having another episode,” Dr. Beaufort’s voice comes from the door.  “They’ve been coming on more and more frequently.  It’s why we’ve moved the transfer up.  We need your help, Maela, to keep her grounded.”  Dr. Beaufort comes into the room, looking at me sadly.  “She was doing so well, and we thought we had her on a stable regime, then she saw you arrive and that somehow triggered her.  She’s never reacted this way to a fellow patient before.”

“Me?”  I’m bewildered.  What have I done?

“Oh, I’m not saying that you’re responsible,” Dr. Beaufort assures me.  “You were in a coma!  No, for whatever reason, Kailani attached herself to you.  As you know, we’ve been short-staffed and she was able to sneak repeatedly into your room and speak with, well, at you.  And since then, her delusions have spiraled.  She now has a partner in crime, if you like, and she’s been switching between personalities at an alarming rate.  The worst times are when, as now, she goes almost catatonic.  We just can’t reach her.”

“But if,” I ask hesitantly, “you think I triggered her, then–”

“Why do we want to room you together?”  I nod, and Dr. Beaufort continues.  “Because, Maela, we think you two can help each other.  She’s familiar; your psyche will trust her; you can share your deepest fears and worries with her – you should know that whatever persona she’s adopted, she’s always deeply loyal.  Your secrets will be safe.  As you can see,” Dr Beaufort gives me a rueful smile, “at times like these, she won’t even remember what you tell her.  With Kailani, you can re-learn to socialize.  To be honest, though, Maela, we’re hoping that you can help Kailani even more than she helps you.  We need you to set an example, keep her in the here and now, watch over her and let us know if you think she’s starting to relapse.  If we can adjust her meds in time, we can stop her from slipping away.  We can keep her Kailani Reed and not Kailani the crazy bag-lady.  Did you know that seventy percent of people with her condition self-harm?”

I shake my head, brow wrinkling as I try to take everything in.  Dr. Beaufort steps closer, hands in her coat pockets.  “I’m worried, Maela, very worried, and because of that I’m going to share some confidential information.  Normally, of course, we maintain the strictest patient privacy, but, if you are to help Kailani, you need to know the basic facts of her life.”

I look up at Iara Beaufort, at the glossy black hair, today in smooth ringlets, and the dark-brown eyes, soft as a doe’s, while the nurse fusses over Kailani, coaxing her to lie down on the bed.

“Like you,” Dr. Beaufort begins, “Kailani is American.  Unlike you, she did not have a happy childhood.  Her parents were drug addicts, and when she was six, they abandoned her.”  I gulp, looking involuntarily over at Kailani, then return to what Dr. Beaufort is telling me.  “Kailani then had the bad luck to be adopted by an unsuitable couple, who couldn’t cope with the needs of a damaged and sensitive child.  She was then looked after by a succession of fosterers, some of whom, we suspect, were abusive.  The authorities finally found a distant relative, here, in England, who was willing to take her in.  But this woman passed away shortly after Kailani’s arrival, and she finally ended up at Mt. Ida.”

I think that might be the saddest story I’ve ever heard.  Poor Kailani!  I glance at her sympathetically.  I’m happy to see she appears to be sleeping now.

“Well,” Dr Beaufort tells me, “you won’t be surprised to learn that children who are abused often retreat into fantasies, as a defensive mechanism.  Reality is too bleak.  There is only so much the mind can take before it cracks.  For the most part, we can manage her condition with antipsychotics and cognitive behavioral therapy.  But our current treatments aren’t one-hundred percent effective, and she will always have episodes where she suffers from hallucinations, delusions, and identity alterations.”

“So, you want me to–”

“We want you to reinforce her true identity.  She has built up a fantasy where you and she are secret agents wielding special powers, working together with a multi-government task-force to take down an evil international conglomerate.  The stuff of Hollywood!”

I stiffen; listening to Dr. Beaufort, the whole story sounds incredible, and yet…  I saw; I heard; I smelled; I touched; I tasted.  I remember.  A lightning strike of a scar under eyes of cerulean flame; the scent of mountain air heavy with a storm; the play of muscles against my back; the amber malt of a kiss.  En garde.  I remember.  I remember.  Really? my mind whispers.  Do you really?   

“You need to remind her, daily if need be, that she is Kailani Reed, a patient at the Mount Ida Sanatorium, yes, but a woman who is enough in and of herself.  An intelligent, caring, creative woman with so much left to give, whose past doesn’t have to define her future!”  Dr Beaufort looks at me with a weary grimace.  “Unfortunately, Maela, she heard you arguing with the nurse about your delusions, when you first came out of the coma, and, well, she took those fantasies and blended them with her own to create an entirely new storyline, trying to attach herself to you, to find a place in a world where she has no place.  It’s such a shame you didn’t want to listen to us sooner…  Of course, it wasn’t your fault,” Dr. Beaufort assures me earnestly, “of course it wasn’t, but the fact is: your delusions fed her delusions.  If she sees you grounded, not talking about your confabulations, then we are confident that she will slowly reattach herself to reality, have the courage to leave her dreamland.  And we'll finally, finally be able to help her to be herself again.  But Maela, I have to stress that if you indulge her, if you let her pull you into that world, you'll be damning both of you.  I know you doubt yourself, Maela, but you could be so strong, if you just tried.  You could save both of you; I know it.  You just have to believe in yourself.  In YOU.  Not a fantasy version created by your own insecurities.  Not in phantoms born of trauma.  And if you don't let Kailani believe in them either, you'll do so much more good than you could ever imagine."

Dr. Beaufort peers at me earnestly, and I’m surprised to see that her eyes are glistening.  I find myself nodding.  “I’ll help,” I say faintly.  “Of course I’ll help.”  At that, Dr. Beaufort seems to relax, and I hear the nurse murmur, “Good girl.”

“That’s all I ask,” Dr. Beaufort replies.  “That’s all any of us can do.  Alright, we’ll leave you two to rest now.  Nurse?” 

My head is throbbing when they leave the room, and I gaze almost helplessly at Kailani’s unmoving form.  How can the blind lead the blind?

◆◆◆

Later, much later, as I’m trying to play shadow-puppets with the ripples in the ceiling paint, Kailani stirs.

“What… what… Where am I?”  Her voice is groggy with sleep.

“Hey, Kailani.  It’s me, Maela.  You’re in my room, well, our room.  We’re rooming together now.”  I try to keep my own voice low and even, try not to let my anxiety show.  This is the first time I’ve spoken to Kailani since… well… since, and I need… I really need… just…  Fuck!  Am I crazy?  Is she crazy?  Or are we the only two sane people in a sanatorium?

“Gemm?”  

“No, Kailani.  It’s me, Maela.”  And even though she doesn’t recognize me, I feel a flutter of excitement, in the pit of my stomach, that maybe, just maybe, the dream was truth.

“Fucking frogs,” she sighs.

“Frogs?”  OK, where is she going with this?  I rack my brain, trying to remember if frogs came up in our investigation.  There’s a terrifying jumble, where once a homely order reigned, as if I’ve been turned upside down, shaken about, and then the pieces of my psyche left to land where they may.  Is “frogs” a code word, maybe? 

“Cotton candy.”  The voice, so trenchant, so assured before, is now reed thin.

“Cotton-candy frogs, Kai?” I ask carefully.

“Snip, snip, snip.”

There’s a long silence then.  I don’t… I don’t know what to do with this information.  The woman speaking in tongues, in the hushed silence of the night, is not the woman I remember. 

“Hurts,” she finally says, and I’m instantly alarmed.

“Where does it hurt, Kailani?”  Have they hurt her?  What have they done?

“Mi-graine.”  Another sigh.

“I’m sorry.  Do you want me to call the nurse?  I don’t have any painkillers.”

A pause, then, “Tylenol, my ass!”  That disembodied voice is stronger now.

“Ummm.”  I bite my bottom lip.  “Maybe I could rub your head?  Would that help?” 

“Bitch!” Kailani mutters.

“Sorry,” I say reflexively.  I shouldn’t feel hurt.  She’s not well.  I go back to staring at the ceiling, but after a while, I get tired of the view, so I turn my head to look at the light in the camera instead.  Maybe if I count the flashes, I’ll lull myself into falling asleep.  One, two, three, four, Mary’s at the cottage door.  Five, six, seven, eight, eating cherries off a…  Oh for fuck’s sake!  I lie in stillness for a moment, feeling frustrated and thoroughly miserable, then, “Please, Kailani,” I whisper.  “Please be you.”  There’s silence from the other bed, and I know, I know I shouldn’t disturb her, but…  “Kailani?” I whisper again, this time a little more loudly.  “Are you awake?”  I wait a heartbeat, feeling desperate with the need to speak with her, to clear the maze inside my head, to spread out the tangled vines of my memories and see if we can unravel them together, but there’s no reply.

Later, much later, as the milky light of a new day filters through the window, I hear a yawn and turn my head.  Kailani blinks, once, twice, and then her eyes fix on me and sharpen, and I can see the moment lucidity dawns.  “Maela?” she asks softly.  “Is that you?”

“For my sins.”  I give a wobbly smile.  

“What…” she trails off, as if the weight of the word had exhausted her.

“Hi, roomie.”  I’m so relieved that she knows me I could cry, and yet I feel a certain reticence.  The long hours of the night have given me time to think.  How well do I actually know her?  Let’s say my dreams are true: we met, what, a handful of times?  And even though I felt an instant connection, that we were kindred spirits, destined to be the best of friends, we never really talked, did we?  Not about ourselves.  Never shared intimate confidences, childhood memories, hopes and dreams and plans for the future.  Our yesterdays and tomorrows.  Somehow, when we met, we felt we could skip all the preliminaries, that we didn’t need time for a friendship to mature, because it was already in place.  One that was there, just waiting to be kindled, a warm fire to gladden our spirits.  The few times we spoke, everything was about the case.  We had a mission; chats and giggles and girls’ nights out could wait.  And who’s to say that she isn’t a plant?  She spent loads of time with Elizabeth, didn’t she?  She and the rest of the US team.  How do I know they weren’t working together all along?  Muggins here fell for Amy the friendly orderly, didn’t she?  Amy the orderly who bugged her hospital room on Magda’s orders.  Magda, who works for Elizabeth.  Maybe “Kailani” and Elizabeth planned my abduction together?

No!  No, no, no, no, no, no, no!  I mustn’t think such things.  No muss, no mess, no muddle, clear head.  No muss, no mess, no muddle, clear head. La, la, la, la, la, la, la!  I’m not listening to you, Maela.   

And what if my dreams aren’t true, after all?  What if the poor woman in the bed beside me suffers from a serious mental illness?  And the only thing she’s guilty of is trying to keep me company when I was lost in a coma?  Here I am suspecting her, and all she’s done is to tell me some stories.  How could I sink so low?  She needs my help, and the first thing I do is pull away?  You’re a bad person, Maela.  A bad, bad, bad, bad person.     

And what if my dreams are true, all true, and Kailani is my friend?  And you’ve just betrayed her, my mind hisses.  Well done, you fucking Judas.  You doubted her.  I feel sick and swallow convulsively, trying to ward off the nausea.  Oh, God!  I did!  I doubted her!  I didn’t mean to!  I’m so sorry, Kailani.  I didn’t mean to!  I’m just so tired, and sometimes things get muddled.  I know my wiring’s always been a little off.  I’m sorry.     

I am sixteen again, having just got my license.  I’m driving from my house to the grocery store, to pick up a few things for dinner.  I’m so proud and excited, and I’m singing along with Aretha on the radio.  “R-E-S-P-E-C-T!” I holler.  No one can hear me, so I let rip.  American Idol here I come!  “Up ahead, on the verge, there’s a sign showing “30 miles per hour”, and I glance down guiltily at the speedometer.  “Oops.”  I take my foot off the pedal and brake, slowing the car till it’s legal, then look up again through the window.  There’s an elderly couple to my right, standing close to the roadside, and all of a sudden, my mind begins to whisper: “You could have hit them.  Why weren’t you watching where you were going?  You were speeding, weren’t you?  Idiot.  What if you hit them?  You could have.  In fact, what if you did?  Did you hit them?  Maybe you hit them and you just didn’t notice?  Did you?  What if you did?  How do you know?  Where’s the proof?”  The past merges into the present.  What if, Maela, what if?  Such a simple, deadly phrase.

I watch, penitently, as Kailani glances round the room, her lips curving again when she sees the window, then she frowns.  “How did I get here?”

“You don’t remember?”  She shakes her head.  “Dr. Beaufort and a nurse brought you.  Last night, after dinner.  You weren’t, uh, you weren’t feeling very well.” 

“Oh.”  Her voice is tight.  “Not… Elizabeth?”

I startle.  “Elizabeth?  No, I haven’t seen her for a while.”

Kailani relaxes slightly, bunching the coverlet between long, thin fingers.  Then, “Who’s Dr. Beaufort?”

Now it’s my turn to tense.  “My neurologist,” I say flatly.

Kailani snorts, then looks at me sharply: “Not Dr. Tennireef?”

I start again.  James Tennireef?  Why would an American senator be here?  And why is Kailani calling him a doctor?  She really must be struggling… thinking Tennireef is a doctor.  Oh God.  If my dreams are true, then Elizabeth travels back and forth to London regularly, and the fact that she was here, at Mt. Ida, makes sense.  As a nurse? my mind inquires.  Really?  Playing dress-up, was she?  Yes, really, I answer defiantly.  Gaia was… is… a sort of medical charity, right?  Hah!  There you go, then.  But James Tennireef? my mind counters.  Bit of a stretch, that.  Why would an American senator be masquerading as a doctor in England?  If your dreams really are true. You’d think the press would notice.  Well... he worked for Gaia, didn’t he? I demand, almost desperately.  So, maybe visitors to Mt. Ida are required to wear medical uniforms.  Feeble, my mind sighs.  And you with a PhD!  That’s the sort of critical analysis that passes for scholarship these days, is it?  Standards must be slipping.  I realize I’m drifting again and answer shortly.

“Never met him.”  Truth.  I’ve only seen him.  In a dream.  Maybe in a dream within a dream.  On and on, in an endless hall of mirrors.

“But you’ve heard of him?”

I gaze at her, thankful that the corner with the camera’s to my back.  I’ve had time to think about other things during the sleepless hours, Kailani’s arrival bringing memory after memory, true or false, to the fore.  “We’ll install surveillance devices instead,” a cut-glass voice informs me.  “Audio… turn on the monitor at night.”  I gaze at her, swiveling my eyes up and to the sides, trying to speak through gestures.  “Mmm.”  I make a non-committal noise.  I’m not sure if it will set her off completely if I disagree with her version of reality.

Kailani’s eyes flicker over my shoulder.

“You don’t have Beaufort?”  I’m not sure what I’m asking.  I just know that I don’t want to talk about anything private here.  Now is neither the time nor the place to try to make sense of things.

Kailani gives me an eloquent look.  “No.  I have Phossss,” she hisses his name.  “He’s my,” she sneers, “psychiatrist.  He’s pretty shit, actually,” she spits out, her voice rising on the last.  “A complete fraud.  Flossie-Phossie is fucking trash.”

“Right.  Dr Phos,” I nod, trying to placate her, all thoughts of Tennireef forgotten as she grows more and more agitated.  Phos.  Yet another face, another name.  Doctors and orderlies and nurses.  Have I met him?  Her?  “In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo.”  How many rooms does Mt. Ida have?  I’d like to explore it someday.  Focus, Maela, focus!    

“Yes, Dr. Phos. Good old Phossie.  The man with the key to the castle.”  Kailani’s voice is a brittle bone.

“Castle,” I repeat, like a performing parrot.  Parrot.  Parrot.  Where have I heard that before?  A man with grey eyes shakes his head, mock despair writ large on his face.  Did I say it, back in the then and may never have been?

“You’re a fortress, Maela.”  Kailani looks at me seriously, suddenly laser focused.  “Like me.  And we can’t be taken down in a frontal assault.  They have to find our Trojan Horse, infiltrate our defenses and tear us down from the inside out.”

My brain feels slow and stupid.  What is she trying to say?

I’m opening my mouth to ask her, privacy be damned, when the nurse bustles in with the medicine tray.

“Good morning, dearies.  And how are we today?  Did we have a good night’s sleep?”  At my shake of the head, she looks at me with pity.  “No?  Well, give the medicine time.  The important thing is that the swelling stays down.  You take your pills, and then it’s time for a wash.  You two have Group this morning.”

I take the pills obediently, washing them down with apple juice.  Group.  Oh joy.   

“And you, Kailani?  How did you sleep?”

“Like a log, nurse.  Like a froooog on a loooog.”  I think, think, I can hear a slightly sarcastic note, although Kailani’s smiling guilelessly, and it fills me with an impish joy.  I don’t know why.  I’m just glad to have Kailani here, mad or sane it doesn’t matter.  I don’t feel so alone.

“Wonderful,” the nurse praises, as if sleeping is a terribly clever achievement.  “F” for Maela!  “A” for Kailani!  “Now, here are your pills, dearie.”

“Thank you, nurse,” Kailani says primly, and I bite the inside of my lip.

“Alright, Maela.  Up you get!  Do you need a hand?”

“No, nurse.”  I remember the first days I was out of bed and blush.  Hands lifting and pushing me, moving me about like a doll, clucking and soaping and scrubbing.  Mucky puppy.

“Remember to wash your ears.  We don’t want to find a cauliflower in there!”

I hastily retreat to the bathroom, turning the shower to extra hot to wash away the shame.

Cage Fighting

Jonah

I wake up like I have every morning for a month, sore and bloodstained.  The sun’s been up for hours, I assume, by the amount of light coming in through the window, even with the blackout shades, and I roll out of bed slowly, feeling hungover even without drinking.  It hurts to breathe.  My ribs ache, and I make a mental note to have Walker take a look later.  That last one may have cracked them a little.  Running my hand over my face, I scrub at my head a little.  Getting long again.  Time to shave it.  

The room Lachlainn gave me when I moved in has a small bathroom attached, and I stumble in, fumbling at the lights on the wall, before meeting a stranger’s face in the mirror.  Who are you? I ask myself.  Who have you become?  In front of me are hollowed-out cheeks, dark circles around tired eyes, not all of which are because of sleepless nights.  Looking down at my bruised and cracked knuckles, I smirk, mouth twisting painfully, a fresh cut on my lower lip sharp and biting.  Pressing my fingers against it, I revel in the sting a little.  At least it’s something.  Some kind of feeling other than being lost.  A physical punch in the gut is better than the ache from my memories any day.  

What would Kai think? my brain whispers mutinously.  I try to shove the thought out, but it’s become louder and louder over the last few nights.  What would Kai think?  What would Kai think?  Like a drumbeat in my skull, the blood pounding in painful, rolling waves.  Every time my fist connects with skin, breaking bones with satisfying cracks.  Every time I tilt my head back and howl with the manic crowd as another competitor crumples before me, eyes rolled back in his skull.  Every time I drift away on the roar of my name being chanted as money is flung towards the floor of the dark and bloodstained ring – every time I’ve only been able to forget for a moment before her name has pulled me back into myself.  

And I hate it.

I don’t want to be in this body anymore.   

Reflexively, I twist the leather cuffs on my wrists and shove the thought away.

I don’t want to be in this body ANYMORE.

The first night I went to the ring, I didn’t really mean to.  I drifted there more than anything, following flashing lights and primal screams off a side street near the ferry entrance.  I say a ring, but it was more of a collection of empty shipping containers strategically placed so you couldn’t see what was happening from the street.  The bouncer had a bead on me as soon as I came around the corner and had held out a hand.  

“This place isn’t for you, Sunshine.”  

“What?”

“No cops.”  The statement was flat, unconcerned.  I don’t know why he thought I was a cop.  His face had flashed with some kind of recognition when I saw him, but I couldn’t place him and didn’t really care anyway.  It’s not like he was doing anything wrong.  Not exactly.  He knew they were riding the edge of a weird law in Seattle – one of only two states where mutual combat is legal.  As long as the two fighters both agree to fight and don't risk people around them, there’s really nothing the police can do about it.  But it doesn’t mean you want law enforcement anywhere around your back-alley fight.  

“I’m not a cop.  Not really.”  I was already combative, crackling with energy.  Some reckless joy pulsed from the crowd just beyond him, thundering through my veins before I could shield.  

He’d looked me up and down consideringly, clearly seeing some edge of violence in my shaking hands, and shrugged.  “You fight to a knockout, and you can stay.”  Everything in me lit up into sharp, painful focus at his words.  Fight to a knockout.

I cracked my knuckles and nodded.  “Not a problem.”

“You say that now…” he replied, laughing.  He didn’t laugh long.  Not after my first time in the ring.  Now he treats me with cautious respect.  But at the time he didn’t know what desperation can do to a man.  Not really.  

He pointed at my hair.  “You’ll want to do something about that.  Only advice I’m gonna give you.  We have a free fighter in fifteen.  No tap outs.  Once you’re in, you’re in til you’re out.  Don’t expect anyone to save you.”  He paused.  “You sure about this, Sunshine?” he asked and sighed when I growled out a reply.  “Can’t say I didn’t try,” he said inexplicably, then motioned me through.

By the time I got to the ring, my head was bare, decades of history sliced off onto dirty concrete and swept away with oil-stained rags and blood-soaked clothing.  The crowd was hungry my first night, but I didn’t know.  Not then.  So I’d walked into the ring, touched fists, then knocked the other guy out with a single, punishing hook to the underside of his jaw.  The fight lasted all of five seconds, and it did nothing to ease the pain.  But the raucous onlookers fell into an uneasy silence – this wasn’t what they had come here for.  The violence they craved was raw and red, but not the level of dangerous I had dripping from my fingertips.  They wanted destruction; I wanted Death.  

“Is that fucking it?” I’d screamed, head tilted back, throat corded.  “Is that it?”

“Naw, man.”  Someone else was stepping into the ring now, someone dark, who looked like Death was riding in his blood too.  “Naw man, that’s not it.”

And I’d grinned at the newcomer, face splattered with the broken nose of the forgotten man still out cold in front of me.  “Come on, then.  Let’s dance.”

And he’d flashed his teeth just as fiercely, touched fists, and we dissolved into chaos.  The refs didn’t even pretend to try and stop it.  It woke the crowd up, the savagery touching a primitive nerve deep inside their collective unconscious, and they went wild, pushing in at the edges, mouths slathering, eyes wild and feral.  This wasn't a college boy fighting on the weekends to feel a little rebellious while Mommy and Daddy still paid for his new car and tuition.  This was stepping between worlds, one foot here and one foot in the after, and needing to feel every second of the slow fade from one to the other.  He’d lasted two broken fingers, a black eye, a headache that hung around for three days, and six excruciating minutes before he collapsed in front of me.  The crowd went wild, throwing tens, fifties, hundreds onto the ground, and some ring rat scurried around before pressing them into my hand, keeping a smaller amount in her own.

“House gets 30%,” she explained, with a smile that made me sick to my stomach, angling her body in a way that was meant to be alluring but just made me want to tear my eyes out.  Excitement came in waves around me, from her, from the onlookers, from the bouncer… and I drank it all in like water, letting it saturate my skin and sink into my bones, draining them until we were all dizzy and my mind was a pit of nothing but poisoned pleasure.  

I’d grabbed the money and stumbled away, counting the bills and riding the high of the fight for an hour, absorbing more and more frenetic energy from the fights, until suddenly, and without warning, I was violently, viciously sick, throwing up blood at one point.  I learned my lesson quickly.  Never drain that much of that kind of pleasure from that type of crowd.  It was toxic to my system.  I don’t even know how I’d made it home that night.  And I’d promised myself I’d never go back.  

But I had.  Night after night it called to me like a drug, beating willing opponents senseless in a haze of fury and desperation.  The first week, oblivion came easily.  I forgot Kai, forgot Kronos, forgot everything for the length of time I fought and even after, edging the pleasure of the crowd, never taking as much as I had the first night, just enough to replace her face in my mind with lurid, flashing color and light.  But the second week it took more blood and less time before she reappeared, and the third week, my fight was barely over before I could hear her voice calling to me.  Jonah!  Jonah!  Jonah!  

I hadn’t meant to fight last night.  It wasn’t part of the plan.  I’d already decided to give it a rest for a bit, just go to drop word for Flores that we needed to talk.  Just touch base, ask her if she could put me in contact with Chantalle.  I wasn’t going to get in the ring, but the closer I got to the ferry entrance, the more my skin itched and my hands flexed.  The more I thought about Walker saying we had to drop Cole as a lead.  And the more I wanted to be anywhere but trapped in my body.  By the time I got to the entrance, I’d forgotten about the promise I’d made the team, forgotten about trying to get in touch with Chantalle, forgotten about everything other than the pounding in my veins.  The vicious energy of the crowd was pulsing red in the cool night air, and before I knew it, I was five fights deep.  But the high had never come.  The itching didn’t fade.  Her name wasn’t washed away in blood and sweat.  I was still tied to my bones.  I’d wanted to go for a sixth, for a seventh, as many as it took to lose myself, but the bouncer who had stopped me the first night stopped me again, only in a different way this time.

“You’re done.”

I was shaking, vibrating, skin crawling with need.  “I need a fight.”

But he shook his head and held the rope up for me to crawl out.  “You’re done.  Go home.  You’re going to kill someone tonight if you don’t.”

Which was bullshit.  I’d never come close to killing anyone.  I never would.  That’s not who I am… but the distant wail of an ambulance coming closer and closer made me look at the faces on the floor of the stained ring, and I noticed one or two that looked grey, whose breathing was labored, whose limbs were splayed at odd angles. 

“I… are they…”

“They’re okay,” he’d answered.  “Well.  Amend that.  They’ll survive.  But you need to get your ass home now.”  Looking at me consideringly, he shook his head.  “Worth more than my job if something happens to you, I think.  Don’t come back here.  I won’t tell you again. “

“Fuck you,” I bit out, and his eyebrows lifted to his hairline.

“Careful, youngblood,” he replied quietly.  “I’d be very careful if I were you.  Connections only get you so far.”

Turning my head away, I spit out blood and sweat and scrubbed a hand across my face.  “Sorry.  I’m sorry,” I replied reluctantly.  “Hey, man.  I need to get a hold of Flores.  Can you drop a message for me for her to call me?”  

He shook his head.  “Not happening.  What you need to do is get your shit sorted first.  Then we can talk.”  His head jerked up at the fast-approaching sirens, and he pointed down the dark alley.  “Go.”

Then we can talk.  Fuck you.  I am sorting out my shit.  Nightly.  Beating other people into oblivion so I can have some oblivion of my own.  It’s a small price to pay for a precious commodity.  And I’m doing them a favor, because that’s what they’re there for.  They want to feel something; I want to forget how to feel.  And we both get what we want, at least for a little while.  What would Kai think? the whisper comes again, this time more insistent.

Well, Kai’s not fucking here, so shut the fuck up!  Kai doesn’t get a fucking say!  I scream in my head at the face in the mirror, and suddenly everything is silent.  

Christ.  CHRIST.  What is happening to me?  I grip my head in my hands and sink down onto the floor, rough sobs torn from my body like barbed quills.  What is happening to me?  I didn’t even get to Flores. How could I have gotten distracted like that?   Our first lead in weeks, and it was more important to me to escape than to do something useful for once!

Over and over it plays in my head, memories melting together until I can't tell the difference between now and then, until all I can see is her hand reaching out to me, her eyes wide and wild, her mouth shaping my name as she gets washed away.  Jonah, Jonah, Jonah, she pleads.  Please.  I am still there hours later, when Deo finds me, curled up in a ball, head in my hands, face stained with tears and blood.  

He sinks to his heels before me and looks like he’s going to say something, before pausing, and nodding to himself.  “Alright, Shotridge,” he says softly.  “I think this has gone on long enough.”

And, pulling me to my feet, he hugs me roughly, then leads me back to bed, where I collapse into an exhausted heap.

“I can’t sleep, man.  I… I can’t sleep.  Or I just…”  My words are mumbled, thick with fatigue.  

Deo doesn’t seem to need any further explanation.  “I’ll stay, Jonah.”  He pulls up a chair and grabs a book off my shelf, ignoring my muttered protests.  “It’s fine.  I’m here.  Go to sleep.”  

I want to protest, tell him to get the fuck out, that I don’t need him, that I’m doing fine on my own, but he sighs and shakes his head.

“Sleep, Jonah.”  The words are half command, half entreaty, and I can’t ignore either.  I’m out before my eyes are closed.

And I dream for the first time since Kai was stolen.

Saving Each Other

Kailani

Maela won’t talk to me.  She treats me carefully, with kid gloves, all soft looks and scared glances.  I know there are words filling her mouth like sand, that she is choking on them, but she won’t talk.  They are suffocating her here.  Somehow they have buried her alive.  I can see thoughts push at her lips, see her swallow them back and replace them with water, replace them with butterflies, replace them with scripted letters.  But the words she wants to say… no.  Those are tombstone silent, those are buried deep, deep below, where all dark things are kept.  

“Is that…” she swallows reflexively, eyes darting around the room check-check-checking, ticking off the boxes on the acres of list she keeps in her file-cabinet brain.  “Is that… are you leaving your bed like that?”

She sounds so pained, physically pained, like I’m stabbing her, and I feel cold cruelty flood my veins.  Yanking the thin, dingy blanket up to some semblance of neatness, I nod, clenching my teeth in a feral grin.  “Yes.”  Fuck you.  FUCK YOU for not talking to me.   Yesterday they gave me a new concoction, something pale blue, thick slime in a tiny cup, sliding down my throat like a Jello shot, and I’ve been nothing but violence and volcanoes since.  Keeping it inside of me is cracking my bones, shattering them under my skin.  Blue used to be my favorite color.  Not anymore.  Not when blue means anger so bright it makes my teeth ache.   I’d trade all the blue in the world for the little white pills they usually give me, the ones that make everything go away, me included.  Those white pills are all fog and forgetfulness, little gateways into grey worlds where nothing ever hurts.  Blue, though.  With blue I can feel myself coming apart, flesh about to erupt, bones bursting free, and I’m about to explode when I see her face.  

She’s as blank as she can make herself, but even with that, worry creases her face, and guilt slams into me like a train.  What am I doing?  Control, Kai.  Breathe.  Oh gods.  Please Maela.  Please just talk to me.  I’m sorry.  I won’t yell.  Please.  Talk to me before they take me away for the day, before I lose any more of myself.  

“Can you… Kailani… could you just straighten it a little?  Just a little?  If you don’t mind?”  Little hummingbird wings of panic flutter in her voice.

A poisoned sadness, bleak and burning, washes over me.  You’re not being very nice, Kai.  Not very nice at all.  No wonder she won’t talk to you.  I wouldn’t talk to you if I weren’t locked in your head.  Taking a deep breath, I sharpen the edges, tuck the sheets, fluff the pillow – well, as much as I can fluff the cement-like rectangle.  “Sorry, Maela,” I whisper, and she looks relieved.

“It’s okay.  It looks okay.”  

I can see the weight fall off her shoulders.  It’s never perfect – I’m never perfect – but as long as I try, I can keep her from the cliff edge where we dance in a strange, syncopated movement.  One of us is always close to plunging over, the other pulling her back with frantic hands, taking her place.  I once read a story about two people tied to a log in the water.  It was a form of torture – one would be underwater drowning while the other was above water, gulping oxygen, mouth open and gaping like a dying fish.  At first, they worked together, taking turns, trying desperately to keep the other alive.  But slowly, slowly, their natural instinct took over, the id pushing through the superego, clawing its way to the surface, and they turned on each other, even against their wills.  

Maela and I are tied to that log.  And as hard as we try to let the other breathe, we are failing.  We are failing.  And we will both drown if this continues.  I straighten the corners again, glancing at her own, expertly made bed in comparison.  Do better, Kai, I chant to myself.  Do better.  Let her breathe, and she’ll speak to you about real things.  Help you through the fire and smoke out of your burning mind.  Looking up at Maela, I can feel the hope on my face.  Is it enough?  Did she see me try?  But she is already focused on the lamp on her bedside table, hands shaking, brow furrowed, as she makes minute adjustments to an already perfect tableau.  Her eyes are dull shadows in yellow-grey sockets, her skin looking almost bruised with exhaustion.

There isn’t a word for how tired Maela is.  No word in the entire dictionary.  No word in the entire world.  Her whole body is bent and trembling, a reed in the wind.  And yet, she almost never sleeps.  Almost.  The magician’s secrets always change, but I learned a card trick once, where I saw how I could change the Queen of Spades for the Queen of Hearts, and no one noticed.  A slight of hand, a quick flick of fingers, and Maela can close her eyes for a few hours.  But you have to pay to see the show.  And the price is high.

I remember the day I woke up and saw her in the bed across from me.  I don’t know if I’d ever been so happy in my entire cursed life to see her face slowly come into focus, like a dream stepping from the mist into real life.  I could have cried in relief.  

“Maela,” I’d asked.  “Is that you?”

“For my sins,” she’d replied, so very her that I could feel the tears choking me, hope so sudden and strong it was a hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing. 

“What…”  I couldn’t speak, couldn’t form any other words.  Maela, Maela, Maela, my brain chanted.  It’s Maela!  

And then… then… she’d just looked at me, with a blank, friendly smile plastered on her face.  “Hi roomie!”

As though where we were was normal.  As though what was happening was normal.  I wanted to scream.  And it never got better from that moment.  Never.  Maela was all caution, all carefully chosen words from that second on.  I’d tried – I had tried.  In the dark, that first night, when the clock was flashing and the halls were silent, I’d ghost-stepped to her bed.  “Maela,” I’d whispered, almost swallowing my words, they were so quiet.  “Do you remember?  Do you remember?”  I wanted to say their names, tried to ask about the man who’d knit my brain together in golden strands of light, about the one who gave me his only happy memory as a gift, about a smile that lit up all of my dark corners, about the man who felt like safety and home, or the one who felt like riding on my motorcycle – wild and unpredictable.  But their names, even thinking them, were more painful than anything that had happened to me since I’d been here.  So instead I’d just asked, “Babylon?”

And she’d turned to look at me through weeping eyes, shaking her head.  “Oh God, Kai.  I was almost asleep.  I was so close.”  

“I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!” I’d replied frantically, but a sob burst from her, shaking her entire body, and then I was crying too, enough tears to flood the world, like Alice.  

“So close,” she kept repeating.  “So close.”  She wailed, a keening sound, a mourning song, a Bean Sidhe, calling for death.  It was a glass-breaking shriek, shattering ear drums and the silence of the night.

The nurses had come in to see the commotion, had been furious with me and gentle with Maela, crooning softly in sympathy before turning cold eyes on me.

“How could you, Kailani?” they’d said.  “Even for you this is too much.  How could you?”

I didn’t know!  I’m sorry!  I didn’t mean to!  I’d wanted to tell Maela, but they took me away to give her some peace.  Peace.  Such a strange word here.  They’d walked me through repetitive hallways, down stairs and more stairs, ‘til my breath stuttered in my chest and we were deep below where I’d never been before.  They finally stopped when we reached a short, dark passageway, dimly lit with flickering bare bulbs, stretched in front of me, and, at the very end, a surprisingly beautifully carved door, covered in curling flowers.  

Above the door was a simple, shining plaque – some carved metal catching what little light was in the hallway, reflecting it back in a cheerful little glow.  The Peaceful Place it read, and the band across my chest had loosed, just slightly.  The Peaceful Place, with a beckoning door and a welcoming light.  That’s not so bad.    

Silly Kailani.  Silly, stupid Kailani.  

I should have known better.  

You’ll never learn, the voice in my head whispers to me, bringing me back to the present.  But I had learned something, locked behind that lying door.  I had learned how to let Maela sleep, just a little.  Speaking of which… “Maela?”

Her eyes drag, stutter-stepping across the room to reach me, checking the bookshelf, the window sash, the bedside tables, the beds, before finally focusing on me.  The anger bubbles inside me again – why can’t she just fucking look at me, LOOK AT ME – before I shove it down.   Control yourself, Kailani.  Control.  

“Yes?”  Blank.  Neutral.  Where has she gone?  Maybe she was never there.

“It’s time for Group.  How…” the question almost hurts to ask, but I have to.  “How long has it been since you’ve slept again?”

Rubbing a tired hand over her dry eyes, she sighs.  “I think maybe I got some last night.  I don’t know.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, Maela staring straight ahead, not moving, me shifting constantly, tapping my feet, flexing my hands.  She’s the calm before the storm; I am the living hurricane.  My movement makes her nervous; her stillness makes me anxious.  We watch the clock together, blinking on the wall, waiting for the morning nurse and her carnival cart of pills.  But no one comes.  Don’t be fooled, Kai, the voice whispers.  It’s always a test.  There’s always a reason.  And still the seconds tick by.

“Someone should be here by now.”  The words burst from her unintentionally, voice trembling.  Maela is uneasy, her careful schedule upset, and I know, if she thinks too much about the change of plans, she’ll spiral down.  And when Maela spirals, it means bad things for her.  Bad, bad things.  Today must be Maela’s day strapped to the log, trapped beneath the water.  But her skin hangs off her like a poorly fitted Halloween mask, and I don’t know if she can handle going under today.  So it’s my turn to find her oxygen.  Right.  I can do this.  Resentment flares in my veins, anger’s close cousin, and lava-red rage pumps burning from my heart.  Breathe.  In-and-out.  Fuck, I hate blue.  Just calm the fuck down.  If you show, then they’ll know.  Show no, show know.  No, no, no, no.  Calm DOWN.

Maela’s shaking now, and I know from experience if I don’t move soon, she’ll fall to pieces, and then, oh, and then they’ll come to put the pieces back together.  But they’re not careful.  No.  They cut the corners, jam the puzzle into the wrong shape.  Nodding decisively, I bounce to my feet with barely restrained energy and open the door, motioning her out.  “Group this morning shouldn’t be too bad, I think.  Today is mantra day.”  I force myself to speak calmly, steadily.  Steel spine, Kailani.  Shiny, diamond spine today.  For Maela.

A bright grin, like a comet, flashes across her face, surprising both of us.  “Mantras,” she scoffs.  I love it.  “Those aren’t mantras.  They’re like… Twitter versions of mantras.  L.A. soundbites for rich celebrities.  What was it last time?  I am calm.  I am present in this moment.  I am enough.  The world and I are one.”  She rolls her eyes, and the Maela I knew rushes back into beautiful, brilliant focus, all at once.  “Wonder what they’ll have us do this go round.  I’m good enough; I’m smart enough; and doggone it, people really like me?”  

Laughter laces her voice, and mine in return.  “Could you imagine?  Seven holy hells.  Should I try it with Enid today?  Do people really like me?”  I flutter my eyes, posing with my hands clasped beneath my chin.

Maela snorts, then claps her hand over her mouth, swallowing her laughter.   “Don’t even joke.  I hate to think about what she’d do, and I have enough trouble trying to keep you sane at the best of times–”  The words rush out before she can stop them, and then flick-flick-flick, her eyes dart around frantically.  But thankfully, in a rare, positive twist of fate, no one is near.  No nurses or orderlies, no flashing clocks or blinking cameras, and I think we both realize at the same time that, for a brief second, we are actually alone.

The hall stretches long and empty in both directions, painfully bright, fluorescent bulbs overhead, every door on the corridor closed tight.  We can’t stop – we would never risk stopping – but our feet slow of their own accord, and we don’t look at each other.

“Keeping me sane?” I ask, speaking as quickly and quietly as I can.  She pulses in and out with the suddenly very loud sound of my blood pumping in my veins.  Woosh-woosh, woosh-woosh.

“I shouldn’t have said that.  I’m tired.  Get it together, Maela,” she admonishes herself, breath coming in rapid, shallow pants.  “No mess, no muss.  Get it together.”

“Mae… what… do you not think I’m sane?”  I know hurt is clear in my voice, but more concerning is the worry lacing my words.  Does Maela think I’m… oh my gods.  Am I… is this why she isn’t talking to me?  

She looks at me, eyes wide, whites showing, and I can’t tell if she’s scared of me or scared for me.  “We’re all mad here,” she whispers, frozen, and the area around her face begins to blur, to fade away.

I focus on breathing, in-and-out, in-and-out, and the little voice in my head whispers insidiously, Kailani?  Of course you’re sane.  Kailani would never make up stories and worlds where she is loved.  Would she.  Would she?  Fear covers me like a blanket, wrapping around me, heavy and thick.  Maela tries to keep you sane?

She is wringing her hands, brow furrowed in concentration.  “I am strong enough,” she says quietly, determination clear in her voice.  “I can save both of us if I try hard enough.  I just need to believe in myself.  No mess, no muss.”

I don’t understand, and we don’t have enough time.  The stairs leading to the Group meeting room are seconds away.  “I believe in you, Maela,” I whisper, “whatever that means.”  Her eyes flare wide.  I’ve surprised her somehow.  And now the sound of rapid footsteps and accusatory tones echo up the stairs in front of us; clearly something has gone wrong somewhere, a mistake I’m absolutely sure won’t happen again, so I take the gift we’ve been given.  Suddenly I’m frantic.  She needs to know; I need to be sure that she knows. I’m still on her side.  If sides ever existed.  If we were ever anything other than what we are now.  “It’s us, and it’s them.  Right?”  I barely breathe the words, and they tumble from my mouth, almost unintelligible.  “Please, Maela.  We have to get out of here.  We’re turning to dust.”  The footsteps are louder now, almost upon us, and my heart skips in panicked beats.  “Just… remember.  We’re a team.  No matter what.  

Maela’s hand drifts to her mouth, eyes black in flared, white canyons, and her answering whisper is more air than sound.  “Save both of us.”  Our eyes meet in a brief, brutal moment of understanding and violent hope, before I watch it drain from her face, replaced by robotic obedience.

Two nurses round the corner, looking harried, and come to a startled halt on the stairs in front of us.  “What are you two doing?” one asks suspiciously, and Maela stares down at them with clear, empty eyes.

“It’s Group time,” she answers calmly, only the merest hint of a tremble in her words.  “On the schedule.  We’re supposed to be there in two minutes.”

Both of the women below us frown.  “And you both just decided to go?  On time?  With no prompting?”

“It’s on the schedule.  We only have two minutes,” Maela repeats more forcefully, and for a moment, we’re all frozen.  They’re not sure what to do, and I can see Maela searching for the right answer, the magic password that will make them let us go by without incident.  Shiny spine, Kai, I repeat silently to myself.  Shiny, diamond spine.  Maela needs to sleep.  Swallowing down nausea, I let all of that blue-induced anger boil over.

“Fuuuck you!  Looking at me like that.  Fuck you!  Christ on a cracker.  I’m doing what I’m supposed to for once and you’re still sitting on sticks.  Unless – oh gosh –” I gentle my voice into saccharine sarcasm, “maybe those things up your asses are the only action you’re getting?  I hear they make toys for that – probably more comfortable than what you’re shoving up there,” I say, and it’s such a relief, such a pressure-cooker release of relief, that I almost welcome what’s about to happen.  Almost.  Their answering, affronted gasps let me know I’ve done some damage.  Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Then, turning to Maela, I take a deep breath, cause I’m about to go under.  “And really, fuck you too, Red, because I could have stayed asleep instead of waking up to your bitching.  ‘Oh, Kai!’” I mimic, making my voice high and mincing, a gross imitation of Maela’s, “‘We have to go!  You have to get ready!  We can’t be late!’”  Laughing darkly, I reach out a hand and shove her a little.  She looks so confused, so lost, and I have to bite back an apology.  It’s for your own good.  You need to sleep to think.  If I’m under the water, you get oxygen.  They won’t drown us both at once.  “They don’t even fucking care, but little Miss Priss just can’t be late, can she?  Can’t be late, can’t let me be late.  It’s not our job to do their shit for them.  Christ!  I’m so fucking sick of you and your do-good shit!”  I reach out to shove her again, but before I can touch her, the nurses spring into action, running up the last few steps and jumping between us.

“Oh, Kai, Kai,” one admonishes me, voice heavy with disappointment.  I’m going to be sick.  Oh, God.  I’m going to be sick.  But they continue, just like I knew they would.  “We thought the last time was lesson enough.”  The second turns to Maela, face soft and approving, a stark contrast to the bruising hands holding me in place.  “Maela, thank you for being so responsible.  We knew we could count on you.  I know the Matron was thinking about adjusting your dose this week for nighttime if you showed improvement.  We’ll be sure to let her know how well you’ve done today.  What growth you’re demonstrating.  We’ll try the new regime tonight, shall we?  Won’t that be nice!”  Sweetness like strawberries and cream for Maela, promises of green, grass fields and summer breezes.  

Maela flushes red but wisely keeps her mouth shut.  We can’t both go under at the same time.  It’s her turn to breathe, I remind myself as the nurse holding me shakes me lightly.  “For you.  Well.  Perhaps some quiet meditation?”  Knives and glinting edges for Kailani.  Coldness and darkness and endless disappointment.  Oh, Kailani.  Won’t you ever learn?  “A chance to think about your actions, about your words, and how they can harm others.”  They sigh as one, shaking their heads like little marionettes.  “We’ll just spend a little time in The Peaceful Place, I think.  Just a little overnight, to give Maela a chance to rest and recover from your vitriol.  She can’t help you if you don’t let her, Kailani.”

Overnight.  Jesus Christ.  It’s only morning.  Overnight.  I won’t make it.  And suddenly  I’m shaking, shaking, coming apart at the seams, screaming like a trapped animal.  I didn’t think, overnight.  I thought… I don’t know what I thought.  But it doesn’t matter now, because they’re dragging me along with them, and I’m fighting with everything in me.

“Off to Group with you now, Maela,” one calls, voice cheerful despite her gritted teeth.  “Tell Enid when you get there that we’ll need a little help with this one, please.”

Maela nods, eyes wide and panicked, then scuttles off.

It will be worth it.  If they let her sleep, it will be worth it, I repeat with fervent hope to myself.  If they didn’t see me switch the Queens.  

But in the end, isn’t it hope that kills us all?

When the carved door opens the next morning, a thin sliver of light pierces my eyes like barbed needles, and a single quote repeats over and over in my liquid brain.  I went down the hole, followed the white rabbit.  And now, all I can hear is a voice from Wonderland, whispering, whispering.

“It’s no use going back to yesterday,” Alice said, “because I was a different person then.”

A New Clinical Trial

Maela

The daffodils are coming out.  What do people call them here?  Oh, yes: narcissus.  The golden youth who fell in love with his own reflection and turned into a flower when he died of unrequited lust.  A sad story, but the bright-yellow blooms make me smile.  There’s so little to be glad for nowadays; you have to take the happiness you can find.

I turn from the window to take a seat just as Dr. Beaufort invites.

“Now Maela,” she begins.  “We have a special visitor today.  We’re very lucky, as Matron manages three facilities and has to split her time between them.  But she’s here today and wanted to check in on you.”

Surprised, I look up to see Elizabeth smiling benevolently at me.  I hadn’t even noticed she was in the room.  Gulping, I smooth my hands across my trousers and arc one ankle towards the leg of the couch.

“Good morning, Maela!  I’m pleased to see you’re up and about and looking so much better!  How have you been?  As before, Elizabeth’s wearing an all-white uniform, but she could be reading the news on the BBC, so clipped are her vowels. 

“Fine, thank you,” I mumble.  Why is she here?  I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks, but I’ve worried, ever since Kailani moved in, that Elizabeth might reappear.  I know she was treating Kailani for a while, although I don’t know what happened during their sessions.  We don’t speak in the room, and we’re never alone outside of it.  And Kailani is… well, up and down, here and there.  A little like me, I guess.  But no matter how many times the nurses tell me that the memories were all in my head, I still can’t dissociate Elizabeth Cole, Hospital Matron from Elizabeth Cole, Head of Kronos.

“And I hear you’re rooming with Kailani Reed!  How is that going?”  Elizabeth’s voice is warm and friendly, but it makes me shiver.

“Fine,” I say shortly, and she raises an eyebrow.

“I see you still believe what Kailani told you.  No, no!  Don’t deny it!”  Elizabeth looks at me sadly, raising one slim hand.  “I’m disappointed, but I know how susceptible a damaged mind is to the power of suggestion.  Well, perhaps what I tell you today will help to change your mind.”

I look at her, trying to stay impassive, wondering what she’s about to say.  I don’t have long to wait.  

“Have you ever wondered, Maela, how you came to stay at Mount Ida?” Elizabeth asks conversationally, folding her hands on the desk and leaning forward slightly.  I nod; of course I have, but Dr. Beaufort and the nurses have only told me that it’s an excellent facility and the best place for me.  

“Well,” she continues, “Mount Ida is run by the Gaia Foundation.  Ah, I see you recognize the name.  Contrary to what Kailani may have told you, the Gaia Foundation is a charity specializing in outreach programs for vulnerable people, particularly those suffering from mental-health issues.  I’m sure you know that mental health, substance abuse, and homelessness can be intimately linked.  Gaia provides beds, food, medicine, and treatment programs for the forgotten of our society.  Of course, Gaia has an R&D arm that works to refine and adapt existing medications or to discover new compounds that could be used in treating psychiatric and emotional disorders.  Over the years, it’s branched out and now is also invested in finding cures for common diseases.  You might be surprised at the number of times that a drug developed for one purpose has been found to be efficacious for another.  Did you know that warfarin, now prescribed as a blood thinner, was originally used in rat poison?  Oh, yes.  What else?  Viagra was first used to treat high blood pressure, and Valium was developed as a dye.  And Lithium was used for gout!”  She chuckles.  “Not many cases of gout nowadays, but Lithium’s very effective in calming manic episodes associated with bipolar disorder.  But I’m getting off track.  Gaia, as I said, takes a particular interest in mental health and runs several facilities.  And when the board of directors saw the appeal that the police put out when you were attacked, we decided to take you in.  For free, I might add.  You’ll never receive a single bill.”

I’ve jumped at the word “we”, and Elizabeth smirks.  “Yes, Kailani got part of her story right.  I’m on the board.  Along with Dr. Beaufort.  Now, the NHS is a wonderful institution–” here the two women exchange a somewhat condescending glance “– but doesn’t have the resources that a private foundation like Gaia does.  So, when we saw that an American citizen had been attacked in London and left with life-changing injuries, well, we stepped in.  We’re developing new drugs all the time, you see, and one of them has shown very promising results in restoring function to the prefrontal cortex.  I know you have trouble concentrating, yes, and sometimes gaps in your memory?  And Dr. Beaufort tells me that you’ve been displaying signs of a possible change in personality and a certain lack of inhibitions.  According to your parents, you never used to swear, but now you’re a regular potty mouth.”  Dr. Beaufort raises her hands in a “what do you do?” gesture, and Elizabeth shakes her head censoriously.  I go to shake my own head, then stop.  That’s true, actually; I can’t seem to help myself.

“Well, Maela, I’m very happy to tell you that you’re a perfect candidate for the drug.  We’re still in clinical-trial phases, of course, but if you agree, I think you’d see a real difference.  Just think, Maela, you might be able to recover enough to go back to your studies!  You could return to work and not be a burden on your parents.”

My parents!  “Eliz– uh, Matron, may I, may I call my parents?  Now that I’m doing better.  Please?”  I haven’t spoken to them in so long.  I’d even be glad to hear about this season’s hottest colors.  

Elizabeth shakes her head again, regretfully this time.  “I’m afraid not, Maela.  Your father has had his operation, and as Dr. Beaufort has told you, the signs are encouraging, but he’s in a delicate state.  Your mother and he are relieved to hear you’re doing well, but they mustn’t be distracted with fresh worries about you.  You’re very needy, just now, and you’d want support and reassurance if you spoke with them.  You wouldn’t mean to, but you’d be an emotional vampire.  You wouldn’t be able to help yourself.  And they need all their energy for his own recovery, especially your poor mother.  She can’t be in two places at once, physically or mentally.  It just wouldn’t be fair.”

I slump into the cushions.  “No,” I say faintly.  “No, I wouldn’t want to… to be a burden.”

“Good girl,” Dr. Beaufort encourages me.  “Now, Maela, can we count on you to help us with the clinical trials?”  She taps one manicured finger, today painted pomegranate-red.

“Umm.”  I do want to get better, of course I do, but I’m already taking so many pills! Even the thought of another makes me feel sick.  Besides, isn’t a clinical trial a fairly long-term commitment?  I mean, the last time…  No, don’t go there, Maela!  Your head is a treacherous place.  And your dreams are a garland of hemlock.  Focus on the here and now.  You are at Mt. Ida.  For the moment.  But not forever.  

Elizabeth frowns, pencil-thin eyebrows drawing together.  “If this drug had received regulatory approval, you’d take it, wouldn’t you?”  I don’t know how to respond, but she doesn’t wait for my reply.  “How do you think all drugs are tested, Maela?  On volunteers.  People who care about others, who want to make a difference.  Yes, this drug could help you, but do you realize it could also help Kailani?”

My head comes up, and she nods.  “And other patients at this institution.  I mentioned before that a drug can have more than one application; this compound has shown indications of being effective in treating dissociative identity disorders, not curing, sadly, but decreasing the severity and number of relapses.  Kailani is far too fragile at the moment to take part in the trials, but if you could show a little bravery, a little compassion, then you’d be helping not only yourself but her.  You don’t want her to end up a vegetable, do you?”

I shake my head.

“Of course, your parents’ consent would be enough, as they are your legal guardians and have power of attorney,” Dr. Beaufort chimes in.  “But we’d rather not bother them and that you cooperated because you wanted to and not because you had to.  I hope you’re not going to be selfish, Maela.  Many people in your state of health can only dream of receiving world-class care for free.  Why, in your own country, two-thirds of all personal bankruptcies are triggered by medical issues.  Even if you didn't want to help Kailani, we hope you’d want to give back.”

I wilt.  “No… no, I wouldn’t want to be selfish.  And I do want to help Kailani.  I’ll take the medication.  I’ll take part in the trial.”

“Wonderful!”  Elizabeth beams at me.  “I knew you’d see things our way, once we explained them to you.  Now, Maela, as part of your new regime, we’d also like to start you on hypnotherapy.”  

My head is spinning.  I’m too tired to take in this many changes of subject.  Pill after pill after pill.  Art class and journaling and Group.  Stumbling through the days and fighting through the nights.  Sometimes, I’m so exhausted that I just lie in bed and cry.  Sleep has become my Holy Grail.  And now… “Hypno-therapy?” I stammer.

“Yes, Maela,” Dr. Beaufort concurs.  “I’ve been thinking that perhaps we’ve been too harsh with you.  True, your memories of your time in the coma were confabulations, but to you, they were real.  And I’m concerned that you’re stuck, that you won’t be able to move past the attack until you work through them.  We need to examine them to understand why these dreams are so important to you, why you are having so much trouble letting them go.  Did something happen in your childhood to make you cling to fantasies?  In your adolescence?  Did you suffer some trauma that you’ve repressed?  Do you feel that something is missing in your life or that you are inadequate in some way?  Perhaps you worry that life as an academic, in an ivory tower, is self-indulgent or unimportant in the grand scheme of things.  We can use hypnotherapy, along with the drug, to help you move past any stumbling blocks.  After all, just because your dreams are false doesn’t mean that they lack significance.”

Her words are fragmenting around me, breaking apart into phonemes, random bits of sound flowing past my ears.  I can almost see the letters in the air as they glide by.  

“So, Maela, what do you think?”  Elizabeth’s voice cuts in, and I look at her blankly for a moment before remembering what we’ve been discussing.  I shrug, a gesture she takes for assent, as she leans back in her chair and smiles again.  “I think that is a very wise decision, Maela.  I’m pleased to see that you are willing to keep an open mind and work with us in refining your course of treatment.  That is a very positive sign.  Dr. Beaufort and I will discuss the best time for you to start, perhaps after your next group session?  Iara?”  

Dr. Beaufort nods.  “I’ll speak to Phos, and then Enid and I can work out a schedule.  Now, Maela, you’re looking a bit peaky.  Perhaps you’d like to get a new book from the library and have a little rest in your room?  And maybe, yes, I think we could risk the small amount of caffeine.  How about a nice hot chocolate, Maela?  You’re making such strides; I think you deserve a little reward.”

I nod eagerly, if bemused.  A new book from the library would have been enough to perk me up, but a hot chocolate too?  Maybe I’ve finally fallen asleep and am having a wonderful dream.  But no, the door is opening, and an orderly is holding out her hand.  A new book!  Wind in the Willows is wonderful, of course, a classic, but I’ve read it three times in a row now.  And hot chocolate!  Will it be real cocoa or instant?  Either way it doesn’t matter.  I can taste the divine goodness already and practically float out of my chair and to the door.

“Enjoy, Maela,” Elizabeth calls out, and I turn confusedly and give a little bob of the head.  As I shuffle around to follow the orderly out, Elizabeth and Dr. Beaufort exchange another look, but I’m too preoccupied to wonder what it means.

Homestar Runner

Jonah

Everything tastes like cardboard.  

I poke at the food in front of me, pushing it from side to side in little piles, but catch Lachy’s eye when I look up, and he shakes his head.  Crap.  He’s not going to let me leave the table unless I eat.  Fucking Lachy.  I’m feeling mutinous, but also, well, God damn.  He’s trying.  I need to try.  I don’t like the ugly feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Grimacing, I lift a forkful to my mouth and force myself to chew.  Sorry, Lach, I say to myself.  I know he didn’t hear me swear at him, but it still feels wrong not to apologize.  I didn’t mean it.  

Quitting fighting has been like quitting drugs, or what I imagine quitting drugs must feel like.  I’m getting itchy skin.  My knuckles are still bruised and scabbed from the last fight, and if I flex them hard enough, the pain calms the thirst inside me, but the need is riding my back.  Without that outlet, my anger has been through the roof.  At everyone and everything but the person who deserves it.  Go look in the mirror.  See if you can finally meet your own eyes.  While Kai’s been missing because of your mistake, you’ve been playing Rocky, avoiding your shit, getting mad at everyone but yourself.  If you hadn’t forgotten, if you hadn’t fought, we’d have already talked to Chantalle and gotten somewhere.  But you fucked up.  Again.  

Lachy’s been living in a migraine lately but hasn’t been complaining.  Between Walker, Deo, and me, we’ve been giving off some bad vibes, though Lachy would never say anything.  He’s just a stoic grizzly, taking it for the team.  Who knows how bad things would be without him.  I bury my face in my hands.  You’re such a fuckup, Jonah.  You can’t even help the guys out when they need you.  Get your head together.  They need you.  Kai needs you.  Though, do they really need me?  What use is a Pleasure Bleeder in a situation like this?  I’m the newest to the scene, barely out of training, and I’m trying to act like I can play with the big boys.  I need a fight.  My hands are shaking.  Maybe I can sneak out tonight after lights out.  Maybe they won’t notice.  Maybe they won’t care.  Get rid of the deadweight.  Good riddance.  Kai would be so mad at me right now.   

Lachy clears his throat, eyes tight with pain, and nods to the plate in front of me.  I pick up my fork again.  You got it, Big Man.  I can’t do much for him, but I can do this.  So methodically, robotically, I clear the plate.  If I choke a little trying to get it down, no one says anything.  

Walker’s on the far end of the huge farmhouse table, papers spread around him, heavy shadows on his face, looking like he hasn’t seen the outside for a month.  He glances around surreptitiously, then grabs a pair of small reading glasses from his pocket and puts them on before going back to his work.  I can’t help but smile a little, the feeling foreign on my face.  Kai would eat that up.  Walker in reading glasses.  I make a mental note to tell her when we find her.  Though… I don’t know.  The guy’s grown on me.  Maybe we won’t make fun of him for his old-man glasses.  Much.  He shifts a stack from the left side of the table to the right side, like playing reverse Jenga.  I wish I knew what he was doing, but I don’t know how to ask him – I’ve kept myself out of the loop so long I don’t know how to get back in.  And, if I’m being honest, I’m worried that maybe they don’t want me back in.  Maybe they won’t let me back in.

Lachy’s sitting down finally, poking at his own food, which is a testament to how bad his head is hurting.  The kitchen is oddly quiet.  None of the usual conversation stuttering around the table.  It’s a rollercoaster here; we surge through brief periods of hope that send us to the top of the ride, and then, when that hope fades, we shoot down faster and farther and deeper.  One day we’re going to go so far down that we won’t be able to come up again.  

All contact from Babylon has essentially dried up.  Walker gets a check-in once a day, nothing more than a placating, “Keep holding.  We’ll explain soon.” sort of thing.  Otherwise, he’s been given nothing – no guidance, no work, no assignments – so he spends all of his time pouring over the information we do have.  Which is next to nothing.  I’ve been put on a “temporary leave of absence” from the SPD, pending mental health evals.  Evidently they don’t like their officers showing up beaten and bruised five hours late to work.  Who knew?  Bleeders are still too valuable to completely cut me out, but I’m on reduced pay and mandatory “out of office” until further notice.  Hideo has been looking more and more worried.  He doesn’t talk much about his time with CDS when he’s gone, but he has said that everything Gomez has him doing has him so far away from anything to do with Kronos or Babylon that it’s nothing but wasted time.  She wants to pull him back to DC completely, but it hasn’t happened yet.  Maybe she knows he’ll resign if she tries?      

My brain feels covered in cobwebs.  Fighting burned out a lot of the fog, leaving my mind empty, and it also took energy that I didn’t have to spare.  I frown, looking around, like I’m seeing things for the first time.  There’s a stack of laundry at the door to the laundry room and some dishes in the sink, which is strange, because usually as a group we’re on top of that.  Well, being honest, Lachy’s on top of it.  I breathe deeply, trying not to be too obvious, but I think I could inhale like a rabid buffalo and no one would notice.  I can’t smell the telltale scent of wood anywhere.  No pine, no smoke… nothing.  Which means Lachy hasn’t been building, or carving, at all.  I narrow my eyes at him, taking him in.  He’s pale and looks tired.  Beyond tired.  Exhausted even, like lifting the fork to his mouth is a Herculean task.  But he does it, over and over, on autopilot.

Glancing back at Walker again, I examine him in a different light.  His scruff isn’t a few days old.  It’s maybe a week or two at this point.  And his clothes are hanging on him; he’s lost too much weight.  What the fuck?  When did all this happen?  Where have I been?  You know where you’ve been… I whisper accusingly to myself but then stop the unending drip of poison that’s been numbing me for weeks.  Shut the fuck up.  Stop feeling sorry for yourself.  Fix this shit.  Sitting up straighter now, all thoughts of being beaten into oblivion in the street ring disappear.  I have a different fight.  A more important one. 

Hideo’s digging through the cupboards, banging things around, which is unlike him.  Usually he’s careful and quiet, respectful of Lachlainn’s house and the people in it.  But now the doors in the kitchen are being slammed in tight, controlled ways.  He’s not raging, or being over-the-top, it’s just frustration bleeding into his movements.  And suddenly I realize what is happening.  Lachy’s been keeping us on an even keel the past month and a half.  We’ve been moving ahead because he’s been enabling us to, taking what little bits of excess he could from us, and it’s kept things staggering along.  And I know he can’t help it some of the time – we’ve been working on his control, and he was getting better at it, but when he’s tired, he just absorbs negative emotion like a sponge.  And while doing that, he’s been in charge of everything that keeps life possible.  Groceries, most of the cooking… come to think of it, I don’t even know how we pay bills here.  I just eat what’s put in front of me, wear what I find in my room, and…  Shit.  I feel like I’ve been asleep for a year and am only now waking up.

There’s a pause in the movement in the kitchen; the air stills, and then Deo makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.  The three of us at the table react like we’ve been electrocuted, jumping up immediately and moving as one towards Deo.  His head is in his hands, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, composing himself.  

“Sorry.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to alarm you.  I just…” his voice trails off, none of its usual, studied levelness in his tone.  I can hear the effort he’s putting into appearing in control.  Moving up beside him, I crane my neck to see what was in the cupboard he’d just opened that affected him so badly.  Nothing… nothing seems to be there.  Just a couple of storage bins and some Tupperware.  But something obviously got to him, so…

“You see a mouse or something, Lil’ buddy?” I ask quietly, solicitously, like I’m talking to a preschooler, and instantly want to punch myself as Deo’s head jerks up, shock replacing sadness as he stares at me.  What the fuck, Jonah?  What the actual fuck?  Are you asking to be killed?

“Did you… did you just call me… Lil’ Buddy?”  Outrage and… if I’m not wrong… the tiniest glimmer of amusement are at war in his voice.

“I… I…”

Walker and Lachy are looking between the two of us like they’re waiting for a bomb to go off, and I know I need to make a choice.  If Kai were here, I’d just… fuck it.  I’d go all in just to hear her laugh.

“Hey, man.  Whatever it is, you’ve got the heart of a champion.  You’re gonna make it, Lil’ Buddy,” I finally say in my most earnest voice, and then, “Just keep scraping along.  You maybe should think about getting into male modeling.  Or maybe, maybe high finance?  You could be a quarterback someday and throw for three-thousand yards.”

Everyone is looking at me like I’m crazy, which, maybe I am a little, and there is silence until Walker finally cracks.

“Is this… is this you losing your mind?  Have you finally gone off the deep end?  Or…” he pauses, and the hint of a smile enters his voice.  “Fuck.  Is this a you-and-Kai thing?  Is this one of your things?  I don’t even want to know.”  Out of nowhere, a laugh bursts from him, and he leans back against the counter, wiping his eyes.  “Oh shit.  Tanaka’s face when you called him Lil’ Buddy.  I thought he was going to kill you…” his words trail off as he starts laughing again, shaking his head.  

I try not to, but I take the tiniest sip from Walker’s happiness, just what is already coming off him, and it races through me.  I feel clean for the first time in months.  I’ve been drinking in so much polluted happiness I’ve forgotten what it’s like to just… just feel okay.  Deo is still staring at me, a reluctant smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.  “Well, is it?” he asks quietly.  “A Kai thing?  Or am I going to have to teach you not to call me ‘buddy’ in any form?”

“It’s a Kai thing.  It’s Strongbad?  From Homestar Runner?”  

He shakes his head.  “The two of you.  I swear.  Lil’ buddy.  Christ.”

I pause and grimace.  “It’s actually Lil’ Brudder.  But I didn’t think…”

“‘I didn’t think’ is your class moto, Shotridge.”  But, miraculously, he loses the fight and starts laughing alongside Walker.  “What the fuck?  First the cupboard and now this?”

Lachy and I exchange worried looks.  Deo swearing is one thing.  Deo swearing and laughing is just – well, shit’s going down.  Lachy turns to the cupboard and moves some things around, then pulls out a small, nondescript box.  I hadn’t even seen it when I had glanced in.  He shakes it and smiles at Deo knowingly, who returns the look.

“You know about these?” Lachy asks Deo, and Deo nods affirmatively.

“Kai-cache?” Deo asks.

“Kai-stash,” Lachy answers, and both men look both happy and sad at the same time.  Though not devastated, which is an improvement.

“What is a Kai-cache?  Or stash.  Whatever.”  Walker sounds frustrated and insanely curious, and I know the feeling.  They have some piece of Kai, some hidden insight, that Walker and I don’t know about, and I desperately want to find out what’s in the box.  Hunh.  What’s in the booox?  Kai would laugh.

Deo grins, actually grins, at Lachy and says, “Should I guess first?” and Lachy smirks back.

“Good luck.  You know they’re all different.”

Both men laugh again, and I think Walker is going to hit one of them.  Instead, he takes a deep breath and walks over to Deo, so they’re face to face.  “What.  Is.  In.  The.  Fucking.  Box?”

His jaw is tight, though his tone is level, and I think Hideo can see how much this is affecting him.  Taking him by the shoulder, Deo guides Walker back to the table, where we all sit down, and puts the box in front of him.  “It’s a throwback from when Kai was in foster care.  She wasn’t always placed in the best homes, and…” he trails off and looks at Lachy, who picks up where Deo left off.

“You guys know about Kai’s childhood, right?”  We both nod.  “It wasn’t great.  Some of the placements were worse than others.  She got in the habit of hiding her special things and emergency snacks in secret places around the houses she was in.”

“Just, maybe, a favorite pencil, or granola bars.  Stuff that was important to her, or things to help her get through if times were rough.”

“Or if she had special candy she didn’t want to share,” Lachy adds, and the men grin at each other again.

“Reese's Pieces?” Deo asks, and Lachy quips back, “No.  Reesie’s Piecies.”  

Their back and forth is… well, it’s actually pretty sweet.  And it’s filling the kitchen with my first taste of real happiness since Kai disappeared, flushing out some of the filth that’s been clinging to me.  But I want to know what the fuck they’re on about.  

“Guys, focus please?”

“Sure, Lil’ Brudder.”  Deo deadpans.  “Whatever you say.”  Ouch.  Okay.  Deserved that.  “She’d only hide things in places she knew they’d be safe.  In places where she felt safe.  And I guess she never lost the habit.”

Lachy takes over.  “From what Gemma has said, Kai has little boxes hidden all over their place.  And then Gemma got in the habit of adding to the stash, so Kai would have a surprise if she checked on the box.”  He sighs, pressing his lips together.  “It was important to Gemm that Kai knew not only was her stuff safe, but that… I don’t know.  That things with Gemm were better than safe.  That they were… good.  Gemms would put in a little happy drawing she’d made or a comic she’d printed or something.  I didn’t know about that at first, but one day I was cleaning and found a little box tucked back on the furthest corner of my bookshelf.  Opened it, saw a pencil and a little notebook and a packet of peanut m&ms.  Next time I checked, the m&ms were gone.  So, I replaced them.  And mentioned it to Gemma.  Who told me the story.  And now every time I find a Kai-stash, I add something to it.  And we’ve never talked about it, but every now and again when I check the boxes I know about, there will be something that’s clearly for me.  Wood oil, or a type of toffee she knows I like.  Little honey sticks.  That sort of thing.  But how do you know about them?”  He looks at Deo curiously, who blushes.

“Eh.  I was really sick a couple years back?  Kai came over and took care of me for a few days and…”  He rubs a hand on his face and steels himself to continue, still bright red.  “So the sound of the television was really hurting my head, and Kai decided to read to me instead.  She picked the book,” he stresses and kind of rushes the next words.  “It was called Outlander and was about a time-traveling woman who falls in love with a Scottish Highlander.”  All the guys around the table are trying desperately to keep straight faces.  “And, uh.  It’s a pretty good series.”

“A good series?” Walker asks under his breath, but I shush him.

Deo rolls his eyes.  “Yes, okay?  It’s good.  And in it, the woman keeps a drawer full of snacks next to her bedside for the guy.  And I remember Kai saying, ‘That?  That shit is true love.  Fuck flowers and expensive dinners.  I want a dedicated snack drawer.’  So…”  He rubs his face again and clears his throat.  “So I made her one.”  Everyone is silent.  It’s not like we didn’t know Deo loved Kai.  I think most of us just didn’t realize how long he’d kept it to himself.  “Yeah.  I filled it with all her favorites.  And the next time we hung out, she found it.  And her face…  I just told her it was a thank-you for taking care of me.  And that she could always leave stuff at my place if she needed to, since I was closer to work.  She had keys anyway.  From then on, if she missed the late ferry she’d crash on my couch, and not long after, I found my first Kai-cache.  And I added to it, like Lachy and Gemms.  And she’d leave things for me, too.  I didn’t realize she did it with anyone else, but it makes sense.”

“Does it bother you that she did it with us?”  Lachy’s voice is low, and Deo smiles sadly at him.

“I thought it would.  But, no.  I’m just glad she had so many places she felt safe.”

Walker leans back in his chair, studying Deo with careful eyes.  “How that girl didn’t realize you were head over heels for her, I’ll never understand,” he says, shaking his head.  “You made her a fucking snack drawer.  She literally said, ‘if someone does this for me, I’ll know it’s love’, and you fucking did it, and… what?  She couldn’t tell?”

Deo looks unutterably sad.  “I blanked her.  All the time.  Just let her pick up friendship and nothing more.  And,” he swallows, then continues, “if there is one thing Kai is willing to believe in this world, it’s that she only has herself.  That she’s not worthy of love, or more, that there is something so wrong with her that no one can be capable of loving her.  So she’s never going to believe that someone loves her, not really, unless they make her see it.  I made her not see it.  Made her second-guess herself, because whenever she read me, it was just…  And everyone in her life she has loved, other than Lachy, has reinforced that idea…” his voice trails off, and he buries his head in his hands.  

Lachy stands up and moves around the table to where Deo is sitting, looking down at him, then reaches down and pulls him up into a crushing hug.  Walker and I aren’t entirely sure what to do and just wait, silent.

“Hey.  Enough.”  I can hear Lachy murmur.  Deo is stiff in his arms but hasn’t thrown him off.  “It’s enough, Deo.  She forgave you; we forgive you.  It’s…  You have to let this go.  She knows you love her.  It’s going to be okay.”

They’re together for a long beat before Hideo takes in a shuddering breath and wipes his eyes.  I can tell no one knows what to do.  The reminders of Kai in our lives should be picking us up and moving us forward, but we’re drowning in them instead of swimming through them. 

We’re all silent, lost in our own thoughts and memories, when the sound of my phone vibrating on the table pulls us back to the present.  I grab it and check it, more out of habit than anything, then fumble to open my screen and respond.

“What is it?” Walker asks, voice suddenly sharp and focused.

“It’s from Flores.  She said she’ll get word to Chantalle to contact us.  Carefully.”

“Flores?”  The question is loaded, and I shift uncomfortably under the weight of three pairs of eyes.

“Uh.  Yeah.  Do you… I don’t know if you remember her?”  Lachy looks at me questioningly, and I elaborate.  “Lachy, you wouldn’t know her.  She’s a friend of Chantalle’s.  Handles her online business and security around the bar?  She’s a… hacker, I guess.  Or a hacker who helps people procure things, to be more specific.  I… um.”  The words stutter-step out of me.  It’s embarrassing and exposing, and I scrub a hand over my shorn head.  “She’s at the fight nights a lot.”  I pause expectantly, but the guys just exchange meaningful glances, and I can feel surprise reddening my face in a painful blush.  

Deo just looks at me and shakes his head.  “We all know, Jonah.  Obviously.  We’re just trying to decide how to handle things.”

Oh.  Oh.  “Right.  Well.  I don’t know if she bets or what.  I ran into her one night after I was… I was really sick after one of the bouts.  Like, violently sick in the back alley.”  The guys are immediately concerned, but I just wave them off, continuing.  This is worse than I thought it would be: telling the story out loud is making me realize what a fucking idiot I’ve been.  “Once I was feeling better, I finally looked up, and she was just standing there, staring at me.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and I shrugged.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your fucking business,” I answered, the crimson joy of the crowd still poison in my veins and heart.”

She’d narrowed her eyes at me, waited a beat, and then said, “No.  No, I don’t suppose it is.”  The silence was only interrupted by the ring girl, who stumbled drunkenly down the alley and dropped a stack of bills by my side.  She flashed her practiced smile, more out of habit than anything, but by this time she’d tried and been shut down enough that, when I didn’t respond, she just left as quietly as she’d arrived.

“That’s a lot of cash…” Flores remarked casually, and I snorted.

“I guess.”  The money was meaningless.  It’s not why I came.

“How are you looking to spend it?  You don’t seem like a man intent on saving for rainy days.”

“What does it matter to you?” I bit out, and she grinned, looking wild and fae in the darkness.

“Well.  That’s a good question.  I’m excellent at helping people spend their hard-earned cash on things they want but that are… difficult to get.”

“Not interested,” I snapped, answering the question I thought she was asking, and she laughed, the pure amusement clearing my head a little.

“Oh, you sweet summer child.  Even if I were stupid enough to join in your particular brand of chaos – which, please believe I’m not – you don’t have the correct… let’s say… accouterments… to hold my attention.”  

“What then?”

“Well.  Let’s talk about that, hmmm?”

“So.  We talked.  And it turns out she’s really good at getting things like, um, credit card statements.  And phone records.  That sort of thing.”

Walker sighs.  “The sort of things you were magically producing on Tennireef, you mean?”

I nod, and Deo cocks his head intently.  “Did she question why you’d need that information on a senator, Jonah?”

“No.  She just charged double.  Didn’t even blink at the requests.”

“Ah, Jonah.”  He’s trying to keep emotion from his voice, then sits down heavily in the chair across the table.  “What were you thinking?  She could rake you over the coals with this, man!”  Frustration edges his words.  “Blackmail would be the least of your worries.  I can’t even begin to tell you what a can of worms this potentially opens up for us.”  I want to be angry, but he’s right.  I know he’s right.  I open my mouth to apologize, but he holds up a hand to stop me from speaking.  “No.  I’m sorry, Shotridge.  It’s not your fault, not entirely.  We knew you were getting it illegally.  We could have… we should have asked.  But we didn’t, because… well.”  There is a heavy pause before he continues, quietly and with certainty.  “We didn’t because lesser men than us have walked into hell for the promise of a woman worth half of ours.  Why would we do differently?  If we fall for this, we’ll fall together.  We won’t share the benefits of your decision and not the repercussions.”  Walker and Lachy make small sounds of agreement, and Deo nods.  “Right then.  Chantalle is going to contact us.  We’ll see if the French tutor pans out as a lead.  And then decide how to move from there.  As a team.”  The emphasis on the last sentence is pointed in my direction, and I incline my head.  

Walker half-growls, half-groans, suddenly flinging the papers in front of him off the table.  “I hate this!  Waiting on other people.  Sitting still all the fucking time.  Not doing anything while Kai’s out there who knows where–”

He comes to a sudden halt, swallowing his words, and buries his face in his hands.  And I reach deep inside, months back, to the “me” I was before all of this happened, to the person I could look at in the mirror without cringing at who he’d become.  For once I let that version of me back to the surface, instead of the angry, desperate man I am now.

“You know,” I say casually, “one of Kai’s favorite shows is Brooklyn 99.  I know none of you have watched it… like, it was a Kai and me thing.  But you’d get more of our jokes if you saw a couple episodes…”

Lachy nods slowly at my words.  “Sure, J.  I’ll make some popcorn.  Walker, grab some beer?  Deo, you can get it cued up.”

Everyone moves to their assigned tasks, and Hideo meets my eyes, then mouths, “Thanks.”  

Ten minutes later we’re all on the new, fucking giant sectional Lachy bought when we moved in in December, watching TV and almost laughing.  For the first time in months, I feel like maybe the roller coaster will end with us getting off safely instead of crashing and burning.

Anything for Family

Walker

I’m awake before I know it, eyes popping open.  Where’s the danger?  Smoke!  Smoke!  Up and running, I’m down the hall pounding on the guys’ doors before my brain has kicked into gear.  I got trapped in a burning house once, years ago, and have no desire to relive the experience.  Not nearly as bad as what Madds went through, but enough that I’m never letting it happen again.  

The smell isn’t too strong yet, meaning the fire is still small.  Put it out?  Get out and call the FD?  Suppress it, make sure the guys are out safe, then call the FD.  Making my mind up in an instant, I thunder down the stairs to the kitchen, so I can grab the extinguisher from under the sink, but screech to a halt in the open doorway, confused.  Tanaka is at the stove, apron tied carefully around him, a smoking pan in front of him full of… I’m not sure I even want to know.  Something that looks fuzzy and wet all at the same time.

“Erp.”  Jonah makes a strange sound, catching my eye from the table where he’s sitting, frozen.  He shakes his head in a minuscule movement, with Lachlainn facing him from the other side of the table, stone faced.  What the fuck is going on?  Jonah’s voice is studiously careful when he finally forms words.  “We were trying to let you sleep in because… you seemed really tired… last night…”  The explanation trails off as he and Lachy exchange slightly wild looks. 

Ah, God.  Shit.  I am full of overwhelming love for the kid right now.  He was trying to save me from whatever horror show is happening in the kitchen.  

I don’t like liking people as much as I do these guys.

“Walker–”  Lachy’s voice sounds strangled, as though he’s forcing it to remain calm, and when he turns to me, I can see the mirth in his eyes.  Oh shit, he’s trying his best not to laugh.  “Ah.  Um, Hideo decided it would be nice to give me a break from the cooking.  So… he’s making us breakfast.”

Jonah looks like it’s taking everything within him to keep his face placid, and he reaches out to grab a sip of coffee, before choking on it and forcibly swallowing, barely suppressing a grimace.

“Coffee?” he asks me weakly, and I try to back out of the room before Hideo turns to me, a tight smile on his face, concentration clear in his movements.

“Ah.  Walker.  Have a seat.  I’m almost done.”

“You’re… you… do you…  I didn’t realize… is cooking a thing you do?” I ask hesitantly, and he shakes his head.

“No, but I have recipes.  And I made Kai dinner once, with no complaints on her part.  How hard can scrambled eggs be?”

Evidently as hard as charcoal, I think dubiously, looking at the blackened mess on each plate.  He sees my look, misinterprets it, and nods in self-satisfaction.  “Bacon too.  I remembered Lachlainn likes bacon with his breakfast.  Jonah takes sausage.  You take both, I think?”

“Ah…”  Christ.  I canNOT eat this.  I just can’t do it.  “Some mornings I just do… um… fruit and yogurt.  Trying to keep this in shape.”  I pat my stomach, forcing faux jocularity into my tone, but it doesn’t sit quite right, and Hideo narrows his eyes suspiciously at me.  “Not today though, obviously!” I rush to finish.  “I mean, only when… sure.  Yes to both.  Sausage.  And bacon.  Thanks, man.”  I can barely get the words out.

He smiles again, obviously making an effort, and I’m reminded that, unless he’s with Kai, I never see him happy.  Not really.  So this is clearly him trying.  Which means I’m eating charcoal and wet, furry eggs for breakfast.  I breathe deeply through my nose in an attempt not to throw up, but the smell is… it’s a lot.  Looking around frantically, I grab an untouched glass of water off the table and down it in one go, before choking and coughing up a little.

“Wrong pipe,” I explain haltingly, and Tanaka calls over his shoulder, “It’s cucumber water.  I remember Kai saying something about spa water once and thought it would be a nice touch.”

Oh, God.  Even the water’s not safe.  Collapsing next to Lachy, I meet the frantic gazes of both him and Jonah in an odd threeway.  Threeway… my mind drifts briefly, then jerks back.  No time for airplane memories when I’m about to be poisoned by my teammate.  

“So.  Breakfast!” I force out.  “What a nice surprise.”

Lachy hears my unspoken question and nods, looking pained.  “Hideo realized I’m the only one who cooks and decided to help out.  So.  Breakfast.”  He’s placid as a fucking duck on the surface, but I can see the mad paddling in his eyes, in the way he’s forcing his mouth into a thin line.  This guy is seconds from breaking and, I think, desperately trying not to so as not to hurt Hideo’s feelings.  

“And you’ve cooked for Kai before?” I ask his turned back, raising my eyebrows at the others, whose lips twitch in response.  I would have paid anything to see that dinner.  

“I did.  Back when we were training together.  She had, ah, made me some cakes for my birthday, and I decided to repay the favor.”  Moving to the table, he sets plates in front of me and Jonah, before going to grab his own and Lachy’s.  “Refills anyone?” he asks, holding the coffee carafe, and both Lachy and Jonah cover their cups with their hands a little too fast.  

“No!” Jonah yelps, then, “I mean, no.  I’m good.  Thanks though!”  A look of pure mischief flashes across his face.  If it weren’t directed at me, I would have been thrilled to see him look any way other than beaten down.  As it is, though…  “Walker doesn’t have any yet though.  And you know how he gets without his coffee.”

Lachy nods in agreement.  “There’s a huge mug I got Kai once as a joke – it’s in the cupboard.  Near the back.  She does actually use it sometimes.  But it’s big enough that you can just fill up Walker’s cup and join us at the table without having to bounce up and down.”

I wonder how long I’d be imprisoned for killing these two with my butter knife.  I’m sure I’d get time off my sentencing if I could present this breakfast as Exhibit A.  

Deo looks through the cupboard and finds what can only be described as a soup bowl covered in red trucks and Christmas trees.  “This?” he asks dubiously, and Lachy inclines his head.

“Yup.  That good for you, Walker?”

But it’s too late to say anything, because Hideo has already poured some awful, brown, kind-of-wetish thing into it and puts it in front of me.  Is it solid?  Is it liquid?  Is it… how is it liquid AND solid at the same time?  Newtonian fluid.

“Try some,” he commands.  “I got some new coffee beans yesterday.  They’re supposed to be excellent.”

Oh.  Fuck.  Oh fuckety-fuck-fuck-fuck.  I’m going to have to drink this.  Taking a deep breath, I draw on my training.  If I could get through interrogation tactics, I can drink this fucking coffee.  The first sip is worse than anything I could have imagined, but I manage a tight-lipped, “MmmmMMmm!” which seems to please Deo.

He sits down at the table and stares at his plate, before looking up at us.  “So.”  Hideo is suddenly somber, and I push my plate to the side, leaning forward.

“You okay?” I ask, really concerned now.  I haven’t seen this version of him – anxious, unsure, and too smiley.  It’s… to be honest, it’s really fucking unnerving, and I’m suddenly apprehensive.

“I want to discuss something.”  Aw shit.  Conversations rarely go well when they start with “we need to talk” vibes.  He continues: “I’m going to be as blunt as possible.”  Clearly steeling himself, he’s about to begin when Jonah leans forward.

“Before… before you decide on anything… I want to say I’m sorry.”  The words fall into silence, and he sighs before continuing.  “I’m not… I haven’t been dealing with things that well.”  He waits, then sighs again, and looks down at his hands.  

“None of us have.”  The words burst from Hideo’s mouth unintentionally, and the rest of us look at him, surprised.  “Well, we fucking haven’t.”

“Shiiiiit.  Deo’s swearing?  We in trouble now…” I say sardonically, pulling a reluctant grin from Jonah.  Lachlainn remains stone-faced.  

“Let’s examine–” he begins, and I laugh grimly.

“Aaaaand he’s back.”

“Let’s examine where we are,” he continues, narrowing his eyes at me.  “Lachlainn is running on empty, taking care of us.  Walker’s wearing more hats than he can handle between the FBI and Babylon.  I’m traveling all over the place chasing down empty leads; Shotridge has been off fighting every night.  Maddox is – who knows?  And…” he takes a deep breath.  This conversation is clearly more difficult for him than he anticipated.  Clenching his jaw, he forges ahead anyway.  “And I know I’m not fully participating in our family.  And it’s hurting us.”  Deo forces his hands to uncurl from their clenched position on the chair arms.  “It’s not something that comes easily to me.”

Lachlainn tilts his head consideringly, then a slow smile breaks out over his face.  “That’s the first time you’ve said ‘our family’ like you’re part of this,” he notes quietly.

“I’m part of this,” he replies firmly.  “I just – none of this is natural for me.  I’m trying.  I’ve never been a part of a team like this.”  His words are careful and slow, as though he’s thinking through each one before speaking.  “But I’ve been thinking.  We’re… we need to fix things here.  As a team.  It’s not as inherent for me to be as open and as relaxed as the rest of you, not with anyone but Kai.  It goes against everything in my training and, really, in my nature.  But I want you to know I’m trying.”

Jonah hesitates, then reaches out to lay a comforting hand on Deo’s shoulder.  It’s surprisingly painful, seeing him respond like he used to instead of with sullen anger.  We’ve all been scrambling by our fingernails to hold onto the versions of ourselves that existed with Kai and barely making it.  But Jonah – his fingernails have been peeled off, and his skin is bloody from his desperate effort.  I wish… I wish I knew how to help him.  But I can barely help myself these days.  “We know, man.  We can see it.  You’d do anything for Kai.”  He’s trying to make Hideo feel better, but Hideo’s face darkens, and he sighs, rubbing his hand across his eyes.  He looks desolate.

“We know you’re trying, Deo.”  I echo Jonah, doing my best to shoot Hideo a sympathetic smile.  “It’s like watching glacial ice melt, but we know you’re trying.  You train with me whenever you’re here, and I know that’s hard for you.  It was a you-and-Kai thing.”  I choke on her name like always but push ahead.  “And you check on Jonah religiously.  You help stock the house with groceries; I know you pay Kai’s bills.  I also know you help Gemma out since she’s been struggling so much.  It’s okay that you do things in quieter ways.  It’s just nice to hear verbal recognition that you’re here in this fucked up… thing… with us.  For her.”

“That’s kind of what I’m talking about.  Yes.  Yes, for Kai.  But…” he looks up, meeting each of our gazes individually.  “I want you to know it’s not just because of Kai that I’m staying on this taskforce.  I don’t want that to be the only reason you think I’m here, or that I’m willing to help, or that I can only be depended on for things that have to do with her.  I mean – she will take precedence for me.  Always.  She exists in her own universe for me.”  And damn if I don’t know that feeling.  He continues.  “But… I’m also here for the team.  No.”  He exhales sharply.  “That’s not exactly right.  Because it’s not for Babylon’s team.  I’m here for the–”  Waving his hand around, he motions to us, clearly at a loss for words.  

“For the… for our… the Sectional Squad?” Jonah offers.  I don’t know what’s shifted in him, what happened that lit a path for him back to his center, but I have to swallow hard against the sudden emotion in my throat.

His words surprise a bark of laughter from Lachy.  “The Sectional Squad?”

And then Deo grins.  Really, really grins, and I can see, in one, clear moment, what Kai sees in him, or maybe more, who Kai sees in him.  He’s… he’s uptight with us.  Controlled.  Careful.  Calculating.  All the “C”s really.  Every move is thought out, every emotion doled out in deliberate, delicate pieces.  But maybe that’s who he has always had to be – his mask.  And sometimes if you wear a mask long enough, you forget what your real face looks like, how to look at yourself in the mirror and see your own eyes, your own skin.  Maybe Hideo has been masking and mirroring emotions so long he doesn’t remember how to get to his own.  

Except with Kai.  Because try as he might, with Kai he had to feel.  He had to connect with himself.  And losing that…  I sigh grimly, looking at him through new eyes.  I’ve always respected the guy.  He’s solid to work with, holds to his word.  But I don’t know if I liked him.  Not really.  Until recently, Jonah was so easy to get along with he practically forced you to be his friend.  Lachlainn simultaneously doesn’t give a fuck and also gives all the fucks, which somehow makes it simple.  But Hideo – he’s always been a hard read.  And I haven’t been sure of him in the same way.  My surety of him as a person – not a teammate or tactician, but just as a guy – lay in Kai’s opinion of him and nothing more, not really.  

His grin now, though, reminds me of a time I saw him and Kai training together.  They were laughing and punching each other fucking hard, twisting around, anticipating each other’s movements in clear understanding.  It was dead even until he slipped up, just a little bit, and she pounced like a leopard, taking him to the mat.  She was on top of him, knees on either side, and had an arm locked across his throat, hair swinging in braids to either side of his face.

“Submit!” she faux growled, like a character from a bad 80s movie, and his mask had cracked.  He grinned up at her, nothing but sheer happiness on his face, and she’d laughed back down at him.  Just a perfect moment of symmetry and life being right.  And I’d ruined it with some snide-ass comment, because I didn’t want to be there and didn’t want to be sitting in some small-time PD office in Seattle chasing psychics when there was real work to be done.  And the girl with the braids and the scrunched-up smile had been pulling at something uncomfortable inside me – I didn’t like seeing her straddling another man, didn’t know why I was so angry about it.  Christ, I’d been such an asshole.  The expressions had drained off their faces like a light switch being flipped, and they’d scrambled to their feet and separated, one going to the punching bags, the other to the locker room.  Walker Donovan, happiness thief.

“Funny you should say that.”  He’s still smiling, but there’s something new in it, a teasing sort of “inside joke” expression, and I can’t help but grin back.  This version of Hideo – furry, wet eggs and all – seeing this version is the first time I think, maybe this will work.  Maybe we’ll find Kai, and we’ll find Madds, and we’ll figure this out.  That we’ll have a family and a house and some hard-fought happiness that will be ours alone, in our own way.  The thought sticks in my throat, making it hard to breathe.

Hideo sits back in his chair and meets each of our eyes in turn.  “We’re broken without her.”  His voice is level and determined.  “But we can’t get her back if we’re in pieces.  She deserves better than a bunch of broken men who depend on her to fix us.  We have to… we have to do better than this.  We have to be better than this.  It’s like we’ve given up before we’ve even started.  Hopelessness is not a luxury we can afford.  We are, for lack of a better term, wallowing.  And we need to cut this shit out.  Or we’ll lose her.  Really lose her.”

Jonah, who has been quiet since his apology, looks at Hideo, despair clear on his face, voice pitched so low I can barely hear him.  “Do you think we haven’t?”

I can tell how much the question costs him, how much the idea must have been digging its talons into him, because it sounds like the words have been ripped from his throat.

“I know we haven’t.  I know she’s out there.”  There is nothing but certainty in his voice.  “I know it with every cell in my body.  I know it because if she weren’t here, I would feel it.  She is my oxygen; I would not be able to breathe without her somewhere on this earth.”  And looking at Lachlainn, I see Hideo’s certainty echoed in his face too.  He knows she’s out there, waiting for us.  “I didn’t realize…” Hideo stutters to a stop, then continues.  “I didn’t realize you thought she was gone, Jonah.”

There is something in Jonah’s face that wasn’t there before.  A lost light reigniting.  A bit of hope creeping back in through dark cracks.  And I feel the echoes of it in my heart.  For some reason, their certitude helps.

Jonah half-nods, half-shrugs.  “I didn’t realize you knew she wasn’t.”

“I just…”  Rubbing his chest subconsciously, Hideo looks towards Baird again, then back at Jonah.  “I just do.”

He nods again.  “I know you do, Deo.  If you say it, it’s gold.”  There’s a communal breath around the table, like something has been decided, like something intangible has been set in stone.  

We’re all lost in our own thoughts for a long moment, before Hideo shifts in his seat, reaching under the table to grab a bag.  “I had something made for you all.”  I take the opportunity to poke dubiously at the “food” in front of me and mouth “are you eating this?” to Shotridge, who shakes his head, eyes wide.  When Hideo sits up, he opens the bag and passes each of us a dress shirt with a hesitant, expectant look on his face.  He’s clearly cautiously excited, and, I mean, they’re nice shirts, but I don’t get it.  Still, it seems like Hideo is waiting for something, so I examine it more closely.  It’s just a fancy-ass, green button-down.  Really sleek, actually – form fitted with folded cuffs on the arms that have a tiny, geometric pattern to offset the color of the shirt – the same pattern repeated down the button line as well as around the inner collar.  It’s obviously expensive, tailored, and totally Hideo.  I have no idea what they’re supposed to signify, but it’s a nice thought anyway.

“Um.  Thanks, ma–” I start to say, but then Jonah starts laughing.  Like, really fucking laughing, and it makes me want to cry, ‘cause I haven’t heard the kid this happy in fucking ages.  Scrubbing my hand across my eyes, I take a breath and look at him, then Lachlainn, whose face suddenly breaks out in a huge grin.

“Are you fucking serious with this, Tanaka?”  Lachy’s voice is all sunshine, like when he would talk to Kai, and I’m feeling lost as hell.

“You have to wear it, Baird.  Do you have any idea how expensive it was to order one of these in size ‘linebacker’?”  Hideo’s face glows with amusement and a tiny bit of relief, like he wasn’t sure how his presents would be received.  But I still have no idea what is going on.  Looking around, I notice we all have different color shirts.  Jonah’s is black with dark-red cuffs and collar, Hideo’s is dark grey with lighter grey, Lachy’s is almost a reverse of Jonah’s, kind of lumberjack burgundy and light black, and there’s one still sitting, folded on the table, that’s an ice blue, which would be perfect for…

“Tanaka.  Did you match this shirt to my eyes, you creep?”  The question’s out before I can stop it, and Lachy roars with laughter, the deep-base sound echoing through the kitchen like thunder.

“That’s what you notice?  Not the couches?”

“Sectionals,” Hideo corrects, laughing along with the other two, all three looking like kids at Christmas.

The fuck?  But then, finally, the penny drops.  Pulling the cuffed sleeve close, I examine the tiny tetris-like shapes on the fabric.  From a distance – hell, from a near distance – it just looks like a geometric design, cool and modern.  But if you looked carefully, closeup, you’d see hundreds of tiny sectional couches woven into the shirt to create an almost indiscernible pattern.  Sectionals.  Fucking sectionals.

“We’re not calling ourselves the ‘sectional squad’, you asshole,” I mumble, still staring down at the shirt, my fucking heart feeling like someone is taking a crowbar to it.  But Deo is still smiling, and somehow I know he knows what I really mean is, “thank you.”

“You don’t really have a choice,” he replies, pointing to my name in intricate, hand-stitched lettering along the inside of the collar.  Sectional Squad.  Fuck my life.

Shaking my head and trying to distract myself from the uncomfortable emotions swirling inside me, I grab my coffee and take another sip but choke again, Lachy hurrying over to pound my back with one of his yeti-hands.

“Come on.  It can’t be that bad…”  Hideo mumbles, snagging a cup and pouring himself some coffee, before spitting it out, looking horrified.

“How… what?  I followed the directions!”

“I mean, if you don’t have taste buds…” Jonah says under his breath, and Deo sighs, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Fine.”  He glances down at his plate and shakes his head.  “Anyone up for the café in town?” 

Jonah straightens a bit and says, almost casually, “Actually, I had a dream the other night.  About an Eagle.  And a Raven.”

I have no idea what to do with this information.  None at all.  I feel like it should mean something, but I’ll be damned if I know what the kid is talking about.  

“You’re having visions, then, Jonah.”  Lachy nods out the window, to a large pine that shadows the front of his home.  Our home.  

“Those things have been up there all morning.”  Hideo exchanges a grin with Lachy, and I don’t know how long it will take me to get used to seeing him smile like that.  He pauses, mischief clear in his voice.  “I know you missed the last movie night, J, but it’s worth it to note that we discovered Walker is not a fan of The Birds, possibly birds in general.  Just for your situational awareness.”  Hideo’s choking back laughter, and Lachy is barely keeping it together.  I groan.  The others were alternating between boredom and mild interest, but Jesus Christ, I don’t know how, because that movie was an unexpected freakshow of horror.  The memory of the night is obviously amusing as hell to Hideo, a fact I do not miss.

“Don’t even start with me, Tanaka.  Those fucking birds…” 

Jonah has gone pale during the exchange, standing suddenly and walking to the window to peer out.  “Holy…”  Flipping around suddenly, he grabs his keys and wallet off the small table where we dump everything and moves quickly to the front door.

“Slowly, Jonah.  Slowly.”  Lachy’s deep voice brings him to a halt.  “Where are you headed?”

“I’m going to get a tattoo.”

Whatever I thought he was going to say, it was not that.  “A… tattoo?  Of what?”

He points to the tree out front where an eagle is perched oddly near a raven.  “The Tlingit people have two main moieties – the cha’ak, or eagle, and the yEil, or raven.  She lives by the mountains; he lives by the sea.  In tradition, an eagle must marry a raven, uniting heaven and earth.  And we call them the lovebirds.  They represent the two halves.”  He walks back to the window and presses his hand against it, staring out at the tree.  Almost under his breath, he continues.  “I dreamed of Kai.  Dreamt of her coming to me on the wings of an eagle, down from the mountains to where I lay on the dock by the Sound.  And I waited for her, but a wind kept blowing her back and away from me.  So I stretched up my arms to catch her, and my skin grew black feathers.  I tried to leap into the sky to save her.  But my bones were bruised and broken from fighting, and I couldn’t get to her.  She was so scared – she was reaching for me… she almost fell, and I couldn’t do anything about it.  I couldn’t figure out how to fly to her because I’d broken everything in my body, and then my feathers started to fall off.  And then the eagle screamed so loudly I woke up.  And I knew.  No more fighting.  I’m losing focus in trying to forget.”  His words drift away, and he absentmindedly rubs at his forearm.  “I won’t forget again.”  The words sound like a promise, an oath, and he turns away from the window.  “So I’m going to ink them into my skin, together.  The Lovebirds.  To remind me.”

“Well.”  Lachlainn’s voice is deep, considering.  “I’ve been thinking about that for a while.”

“The Lovebirds?”  Jonah sounds perplexed, and I don’t blame him.  This has been a strange morning.

“No.  The ink.”  He sits down at the table, and, as always, we turn to listen.  “I had an idea…”

Half an hour later, after a little debate and some minor back and forth, we come to a decision.

“Let me just get changed,” I say, grabbing my shirt from the table and am answered with a flash of startled happiness on Deo’s face.  Ah, fuck my life, I think again.  I didn’t mean… guess I’m getting dressed up.  And if I smile down at the shirt once my back is turned, well, that’s no one’s business but my own.

Too Many Colors

Kailani

Dr. Phos and Dr. Beaufort are twin statues of disappointment standing over me in Grecian judgment.  I can almost hear the chorus behind them, singing commentary on the tragedy.  

My shoulders curl in, my eyes stay locked on their shoes.  I don’t need to see their faces to taste the dismay, thick in the air.   Kailani is a textbook case.  Class, turn to page 246.  You see the description of the ‘classic fuckup’.  Please note how many characteristics it shares with our subject.

We stay, locked in a silent stalemate, until Dr. Phos inhales deeply, then lets out a long, slow sigh.  It’s different enough from his normal, sharp exhale that it finally makes me look up.  

His eyes are almost… sadly resigned… behind his nondescript glasses, and Dr. Beaufort looks nearly sympathetic.  

“Kailani.”  It’s the first time in months my name hasn’t been laced with frustration or anger or admonishment.  I mean, he’s not happy, that’s clear enough.  But at least I’m not in real trouble for… well, I honestly don’t know.  For whatever.  For punching that guy in Group? my traitorous mind whispers, and I smirk despite my best efforts.  That was fucking hilarious.  Even Maela would have punched the guy.  No, she wouldn’t have.  You know she wouldn’t have.  No.  She wouldn’t have.  Because Maela does the right things.  It’s what they say all the time.  “Why can’t you be more like Maela, Kailani?”  And then they sigh.  Because no matter how hard I try, I will never be that good.  But you never really try, the voice whispers again, and the smirk becomes a smile.  It’s true.  I don’t.  Fuck Maela.  Oh, Kai!  Maela’s your friend!  That’s right.  I’m sorry, Maela.  I’m sorry.  I just forgot for a minute.  Not even.  For a second.  A long second.  I’m sorry.  

“Kailani?”  The good doctor is confused.  Shit.  I must have zoned out.

“Phossie?” I ask back, mimicking his tone.  Anger flashes across his face before the tired resignation of moments before returns.

“We’ve had this discussion.  It’s Dr. Phos, please.  Rules and regulations an–”

“And respect.  I know, I know.  Rules and regulations and respect are the pillars of a well-governed mind.  I know.”

“If you know,” he says tightly, “then perhaps you should use that information to help yourself.  Really, Ms. Reed.”

Dr. Beaufort – Maela’s main physician – lays a gentle hand on his arm.  I’m on less solid footing here.  I don’t know much about the woman in front of me – really only what Maela tells me, so I’m not sure what to do.  My shoulders curl in again, guilt bending my spine.  Just act like a human being for once, Kai.  Just a normal, regular human being.  The voice doesn’t realize how difficult that is for me.  How often I watch the other people here, just walking through the halls like they don’t have to think about every step they take, like they’re not second guessing everything they’ve ever said.  Remember that time in third grade you mispronounced ‘organism’ and everyone laughed at you?  It’s because you say such stupid things.  Everyone is always laughing at you, Kailani.  They’re always talking about you.  But no one notices you.  Not ever.  Back and forth, back and forth the teeter-totter in my brain goes.  Everyone’s staring at you.  No one sees you.  Everyone’s whispering about you behind their hands.  Nobody knows who you are, or cares.  

Dr. Beaufort watches me through careful eyes, and it’s eerily unnerving.  It’s almost as though she can hear my thoughts, so I quickly tell the voice in my head to be quiet, and thankfully it listens to me for once.  Beaufort tilts her head, studying me, then makes a decision, pulling a chair around from behind the desk and sitting in front of me, close enough to reach out and take my hand.  Dr. Phos echoes her movements, ‘til we’re all sitting in a little circle, though somehow they’re still on one side of it, and I’m on the other.

“You seem tired, Kailani.”  Her voice is kind.  I don’t know what to do with kind.  So I just don’t answer.  My silence doesn’t seem to bother her; her tone stays soft and level as she continues.  “I can tell you’re on edge.  I want to reassure you, we’re just here to have a little catch-up.  I know Dr. Phos has been the lead on your care here, but I also have been made aware that the two of you don’t always… see eye to eye.”

Dr. Phos’s mouth twists unexpectedly into some version of amused agreement, and, despite myself, my own lips turn up in a mirthless reply.  “You could say that.”

Apparently, any answer is a win to Dr. Beaufort, who smiles back at me, a benign, Madonna-like expression gracing her face.  “Well.  Let’s try together to make things better for you here, shall we?  Would you like something to drink while we chat?”  She motions toward the wall behind her, where a silver carafe gleams brightly.  I shrug.  I have rivers of herbal tea every day, so it’s no treat.  “Oh?”  She seems surprised.  “More coffee for me, then, I suppose.”

“Coffee?”  It’s almost a prayer, and she nods.  

“Shall I pour you a cup?  It’s decaf, I’m afraid, but still.”

“Fu– I mean – yes.  Yes, please.”

Her face twists in a small moue of disappointment.  “I’m also sorry to say we have no cream or sugar.  Usually we would, but the kitchen seems to have gotten things a bit backwards today.”

“Um.  Still yes.  Please.”  It’s only half-a-wish, but isn’t that better than nothing?  I ignore the tiny twist of letdown in my stomach.  I don’t really like black coffee.  Or decaf coffee.  But at least it’s still coffee, right?  Mostly.  She pours a cup and gives it to me, passing it over.  I’m so excited it feels like Christmas morning.  Picking it up, I inhale deeply, an odd scent tickling my nose.  I furrow my brow, confused, and she smiles again, answering the question before I can ask it.

“It’s mushroom coffee!  An indulgence of mine, I have to admit.  Wonderful for the immune system!  Polyphenols and antioxidants and all, you know.”

What the fuck?  Mushrooms aren't… they’re not coffee.  Maybe it’s better than I think, though, so I don’t say anything, lifting the cup to my mouth and taking an enormous sip.  I have to force myself to swallow and not spit it out all over the couple in front of me.

“Oh,” she says in sad realization, seeing my face.  “Oh dear.  Is it cold?”

No.  It’s not.  It’s not cold, because somehow that would be more acceptable.  Then it would just be, like, iced coffee.  So some amount of pleasure would still exist.  This, though.  This is just below lukewarm.  Not hot enough to offer any comfort, not cold enough to offer any relief.  It’s… it’s like someone planned the perfect Potemkin village of coffee.  Somehow designed the most disappointing and deflating version of something I loved, and then gave it to me as a false present.  The amount of ridiculous effort that would take, though…  I shake my head.  There are no boogeymen hiding in the corners to get you, Kai.  Coffee gets cold.  What’s wrong with you?  Who thinks like that?

“It’s fine.  Thank you,” I add as an afterthought, and she leans back in satisfaction.

“Well, as long as you’re in my office, you can have as much of that as you’d like.  I’m happy to share with you.”  She’s so earnest.  Like she’s truly doing something nice for me.  “So.  Now that we’re all comfortable, let’s get down to brass tacks, as they say.  Kailani, Dr. Phos has come to me and expressed some reservations about your progress.”

He nods silently, and my eyes dart back and forth between them.  What progress? my mind laughs.  I can’t help but agree.

“What I think would be helpful is hearing your take on your treatments so far and how they affect you.”  Dr. Phos opens his mouth to respond, and she holds up a commanding hand to silence him.  “In your own words.”

Cocking my head, I consider her.  She wants to know how I feel about my treatment?  Let’s go, then.  “Well,” I say, sarcasm thick as honey in each word, “I can’t say that I feel warm and fuzzy about the Alaskan Wood Frog treatment.”

“The what?”  She looks and sounds genuinely confused and glances at Dr. Phos, who flips rapidly through his papers, before turning back to her, shaking his head.  Dr. Beaufort frowns for the first time, grabbing his paperwork and taking a long moment to look through it herself.  “I’m sorry, Kailani, I’m afraid I don’t understand.  Is that a nickname the patients give to one of the medications?  Or to one of your therapy sessions?”

I glare at her.  “No.  That’s the nickname I gave to being strapped down and injected with something that dissolved my brain for hours.”

“Strapped down?”  Shock ripples through her words, and she spins accusingly toward Dr. Phos, who holds up his hands.  Somehow, she and I are now on the same side of the circle, with Dr. Phos across from us.  “Dr. Phos.  If this is true and has happened under your watch…”  The warning is clear in her voice, and he’s denying it before the words are even fully out of her mouth.

“Of course not, Dr. Beaufort.  I’d lose my license.”

She turns to me, still beside me.  “When did this happen, Kailani?  Please.  It would be…  I can’t begin to tell you how quickly heads will roll.  Excuse my language.  I’m sorry.  I’m astounded.  Absolutely astounded.  Start at the beginning.  Please.  Who was there?  When did this happen?”  She sits, pen poised, ready to write down anything I say, brows knitted together in careful concentration.  “Any details, any at all.”

But… but that’s the problem.  Isn’t it?  Details.  When does anything happen here?  How long have I even been here?  Minutes are months, and hours are years; I’m locked in a tower where the sun never rises or sets.  “E… Elizabeth… and… a room down a hallway…” I stammer, trying desperately to remember.  The table is clear as day in my mind, the straps, the shining needle, the bubbles of liquid.  But after that, it all becomes a blur.  Rubbing my head where centipedes with needle-feet squirm and burrow into my temples, I try to focus, then feel soft fingers wrap around my own.  

“Don’t strain yourself.  If you can recollect anything helpful, anything at all... I promise I will take action.  I have an open door for you, Kailani.   But…”  She’s so hesitant, so apologetic, so gentle.  “The lack of details, your inability to recall what would have undoubtedly been an incredibly traumatic event… I don’t doubt you, of course.  Or rather, I don’t doubt that you have convinced yourself, that you truly believe, that something terrible happened to you.  It’s my job, however, to help you separate yourself from your trauma, to find the truth so you can face it head on.  I want to assure you that, whatever may have occurred, however it is presenting itself in your memories, whether it really happened or is a protective shield your mind created to comfort you, I will help you move forward, to find comfort in the truth.  I wonder if you’d indulge me.”  Standing, she moves behind the large, wooden desk, and returns with a tray of brightly colored medication.  I recognize every one and draw back in alarm.

“That’s too many!”  The words burst from me in mindless panic, and I shove my chair back from her.   “I can’t – that’s too much!”  I’m a trapped bird, a caught fish flailing frantically on the hook.  She croons softly, quiet sounds like a mother makes to a child, but it does nothing to calm my racing heart.  I have to make her understand.  Desperately pointing a shaking hand at the tray, I force myself to speak.  “I’d come apart.  That’s too many.”

“Too many… pills?”  She cocks her head, trying to understand me.

“Too many emotions.”

Dr. Beaufort and Dr. Phos exchange long glances, and it gives me a chance to consider my options.  If I kick the tray, the meds will go flying, and I’ll have fifteen, maybe even twenty seconds to run, run, run, as fast as I could.  I could maybe reach the stairs, maybe… oh gods.  It’s too many.  All the colors of the rainbow.  The fairies will steal you away and you’ll never return.

Her steady voice interrupts my thoughts.  “These aren’t for you to take, Kailani,” she reassures me.  “I just want to know how each makes you feel.”

And those are the magic words, aren’t they?  How do they make me feel?

“They make me feel terrible,” I reply shortly, chest rising and falling in rapid pants, and she raises a single, elegant eyebrow.

“All of them?” she questions, and I shrug.  Frowning, she scribbles something down in a little notebook and motions toward the tray.  “Walk me through a typical day for you, please, and what the results are.”

Sighing, I try to figure out if there’s any benefit to me fighting her and just can’t find the energy.  It is what it is.  I just… I just can’t find it in me to care anymore, so I point at the first little cup.  “White are my favorite days.  Well, just white.  Those are misty-cloud days.  Nothing bothers me.”

“Well, that sounds nice!” she replies encouragingly.  “What do you like to do on those days?” 

I just stare at her, confused.  “What do you mean?”

“Well, what happens on a misty-cloud day?”  She smiles.  “It sounds like a nice place!”

“Um… nothing.  I don’t like to do anything.  Those are just… they’re placeholder days?  Like, nothing bothers me, but…”  I frown, searching for the right words.  “There are no feelings at all on white-pill days.  That’s what makes them my favorite.”

“At all?” she asks, turning to Dr. Phos, who shrugs minutely.  She looks back at me.  “What if something bad happened on a white-pill day?”

“I… I mean, I don’t know.  Nothing?”  I don’t understand what she’s asking, and my answer clearly isn’t what she was expecting.

“Let me be more specific.  You’re friendly with your roommate, correct?”  I nod.  “Well, let’s say Maela fell down the stairs and injured herself on a white-pill day.  How would you feel?”

“I – I wouldn’t?”  

“At all?”

“At all.  Those are blank days.  Like, empty-pages-in-a-book days.”

“No empathy?  No – ‘Are you okay?’”

“No.  Nothing.”

“You wouldn’t, say, at least help her up if you were walking by her?”

“Um.  Probably not?  I wouldn’t… I probably wouldn’t think to.”

“What if something good happened?  Like, an ice-cream-sundae bar!”  She’s trying to inject some lightness in her voice, but I can hear the underlying tension.

“I wouldn’t care.”

“If the ice cream were put directly in front of you?  And it was all your favorite flavors?”

“I mean, I can’t promise anything.  Because good things don’t happen here, so I don’t know what that feels like.  But my guess is… I’d probably just… I don’t know.  Stare at it or something.”

“What if…”  Her words are hesitant now, as though she’s debating her next question.  “What if, on a white-pill day, what if you think about your… well, delusions, but that seems rather clinical, almost mean.  So let’s call it your fantasy world instead, shall we?”

A sharp pang in my heart.  A skipped beat.  And then… emptiness.  “I… I don’t know?  Nothing, I guess.”  I rub a hand across my face, pressing in on my eyes where pinprick spots of pain bubble up to the surface.  “I don’t know.  It… sorry.  My head is really hurting.” 

She makes a sharp, scratching note in her book, mouth tightening.  “Alright.  Thank you, Kailani.  Let’s move on.  Continue, please.”

As soon as she stops asking about my other world, the boiling pain goes away, and I sigh in relief.  “So I always get white.  And then sometimes they’ll add in one of the others.  Or a couple of them.”  Indicating the different colors, I run down the list.  “These usually make me pretty angry.  These make me really depressed.  Sad.  Nervous.  Umm… these, kind of… brave?  In maybe not a great way?  Like, in a stupid way?  And if they combine them, it gets a bit messed up.  I don’t like days where they mix things.”

I feel like she’s listening to me, really listening, and I fight against the sickening hope that lurches in my stomach.  The voice in my head is worried.  Stop it, Kailani.  You know better than this.  Stop it.  But that’s the thing with hope.  It never listens, always appears at the worst time.  Just when you’ve accepted your lot in life and found some comfort in your place, stupid, stupid hope pokes its ugly head up and says, “Maybe.”  And that fucking “maybe” is more powerful than all the “no’s” that came before it.  But… maybe, maybe I can make her understand.  Oh, Kailani.  No.

I can’t help but try.  “I… if there’s any way for me to just have the white ones, I think… I think a lot of the problems I’m having here would stop.  And it would be good.  For everyone.  If we could just do those, without mixing others in…”  I’m trying hard not to beg, but if I could just have white.  “I’m not… I’m not made to handle emotion.  It fucks with me too much.”

“Kailani–” she’s speaking to me, and I try to focus through the rushing sound in my ears.  “Do you know the definition of someone with no emotions?”

I shake my head.

“We call them a psychopath, Kailani.  Or a sociopath, depending on some minor, though important, difference.  Although the terms have fallen out of favor – the more modern title being antisocial personality disorder – the idea remains the same.”

“I’m not… I’m not a psychopath.”  I can’t breathe, tight bands around my chest.    

“I know.  I know.  But you need empathy, Kailani.  Normal people, I’m sorry – I should never use the term normal – let’s say… people without the challenges you face… they are able to carry a whole host of emotions and access them when appropriate, to respond in ways considered acceptable by society.  You – you don’t have even an echo of the typical number of emotional responses.  And that you want to lessen the few you do have is quite concerning.  Quite concerning.”

Little spots of black, flashing lights appear on the edges of my vision.

“Breathe, Kailani.  Breathe,” she encourages me.  “We are, step-by-step, working to help you build and control your emotions.  Bit by bit.  We start with emotions that encourage empathy and sympathy for others – sadness, for example.  And then build upon it, piece by piece, until you someday will become an entire person, capable of functioning in society as a near-regular member of society.  Of course, you will always have to take your medication, but if you’d just help us, Kailani.  Help us help you, and we’ll get there faster, hmmm?  I promise you, we are working day and night to figure out how to help you, and people like you, control and manage emotions.  How to regulate those emotions.”

Dr. Phos bursts into a strange fit of coughing, almost laughter, almost choking, and she looks at him with censure bright in her eyes.  “Do you need water, Doctor?”  He shakes his head apologetically.  

“I’m sorry,” he replies quickly.  “Just… wrong pipe.”

Frown lines deep between her eyes, she turns back to me.  “We could do so much good if we can figure this out, Kailani,” she says quietly, and I can hear the truth ringing clear in her voice.  “So much of society is controlled by those with measurably lacking sympathy and empathy, or those so overcome with it that they can’t function.  Imagine what we could do, how we could encourage the betterment of the world, if we can just… get… this… right.”  She emphasizes her words by tapping the tray, little pings of sound ringing out.  “The people we could help.  The children.  Kailani, the children we could help.”

Something stirs in me, in some part far, far away from the medicine-induced fog.  “I… I would like to help children.  If I could.  But, Dr. Beaufort…”  I’m earnest now, leaning forward.  It’s a chance.  It’s maybe my only chance.  “What– I mean– could we try just… just stopping the medicine for a bit?  I didn’t have any this morning, and I’m feeling okay.  No white, no blue… just… I honestly am feeling fine.”

She shakes her head sadly.  “Oh, Kailani.  If only we could.  And I’m sure you think you’re feeling fine.  I’m sure you do.  But let me ask you, and please, answer honestly – are you really?  No waves of anger?  No… voices?”

She’s got you there, kid.  And she does.  I’m back to slumping in my chair, defeat written in every line of my body.  It’ll be okay, Kailani.  We’ll figure this out.  You need me up here.  I keep your secrets safe.  I keep them hidden away in the Minotaur’s maze, waiting for you to find your way back to them.  It’s trying to comfort me, which frightens me more than anything else.  And Dr. Beaufort sees it.

“It – I’m – trying to keep the pieces of myself together.”  It’s a scary thing to think, scarier to admit.  I can’t lose the voice.  If I lose the voice, I lose…  Don’t think their names.  Don’t picture their faces.  You can’t have them until you answer the riddle correctly.  ‘What have I got in my pocket?’  My precious.  My precious.  You must be tricksy.  It’s a command, because they fade more and more, every time.  These medicines are thieves of dreams.  And the shadowed ghosts in my heart only exist in the night.  I won’t give them up, pills or no pills.  But if you think about them, if you bring them to the surface, the doctors will find them in your thoughts and catch them in their tangled nets.  I nod to myself.  The voice is right.

Dr. Beaufort’s eyes narrow slightly, looking less than happy for the first time.  Her voice is soft, a caution, a warning, a little, poisoned dart.  “You can’t keep secrets from us, dear.  Or we can’t help you.”  She pauses, then tilts her head, and, with a whisper-thin voice, leans forward.  “It is hard not to be valued.  I know.  I know.  It is hard not to be loved.”

A soft croon of sound escapes, despite my best efforts.  “There are people who love me…”  But even I, even I, can hear how hesitant I sound.

“Oh, Kailani.”  And it’s the real regret in her voice that hooks into me, porcupine quills beneath my skin.  “I’m not saying this to hurt you.  Truly I’m not.  But… if there are people…  people who love you.  Who value you.  Who want you.  Other than us.  Where are they?  We’re right here.  We’re not made up.  We’re here.  Where are they?”

Where are they?  Where are they?

My breathing is shallow, barely in-and-out.    

“I’ll make you a promise, Kai,” she says, mouth broadening suddenly into a real, unguarded smile.  “When you can control all those darker emotions, all those heavy emotions… when I see evidence of that, well.  Then I will have quite a treat for you.  Quite a treat indeed.  Because once you show me that you can demonstrate empathy and sympathy, then, my dear, I’ll introduce you to an absolutely lovely color.  A color that encourages… dreams.”

She reaches out and pats my cheek, before motioning to the orderly waiting silently by the door.  “If you’d be so kind?  Thank you for your time, Kailani.  It was an absolute delight.  Enlightening, even.”  

I wave hesitantly in reply but am already being taken away, back to the blank, empty walls that are my life.  Just before the door swings shut behind us, I think I hear her, voice now harsh and biting, so different from the woman I just met that I’m sure I’m imagining it.

“No empathy, Phos?”  Her tone is lit with an almost incandescent fury.  “Mere months from release and no empathy?  We need positive neutral, for Christ’s sake.”

I don’t hear his response, just the soft snick of the door shutting, and the orderly hurries me along, Beaufort’s promise bouncing around my brain.  An absolutely lovely color.  Just control yourself.  A lovely color.  A color for dreams. 

It’s a shame that, like most things, it’s easier said than done.  

Getting Inked

Lachlainn

Hideo’s face is hilarious.  I’m trying hard not to laugh, but he’s never been tattooed, and he went into it with such typical Tanaka confidence that the grimace of pain he’s trying hard to hide is… well, it’s taking real effort not to make him feel bad.

“Howzit?” I ask solicitously, and he holds up a single, shaking finger.  “Well, that’s not very nice, now is it, Deo?  What would Kai think?”

He’s pale, but from the needle, not the mention of her name, and bites out through tightly clenched teeth, “You can never tell her about this…”

“About the tattoo?”  I’m playing dumb, and he knows it, but Walker’s laughter from the other side of the large room is egging me on.  “I mean, I assume she’ll see it at some point.  So she’s going to find out one way or another.”

He turns his head to look at me, and the tattoo artist barks in alarm.  “Hey!  Dude!  Unless you want these lines blown to hell, stay steady, my man.”

Deo mutters an apology and puts his face back down.  He’s chosen to have a massive piece down his spine, almost like he’s trying to prove something.  The stencil stretches from just below the base of his neck to just above the small of his back, with the focal point between his shoulder blades.  The artist had whistled under his breath when Deo said how big he wanted it and had asked cautiously, “You sure man?”  But Deo had leveled such a stern glare that the poor kid just held up his hands and muttered, “your funeral,” and had gotten straight to work.  I’m guessing his piece will end up being a multiple-day process, given its sheer size.

Walker is over at the mirror, shirt off, twisting this way and that, frowning.  “Lach!” he calls to me, and I amble over.  “What do you think?  The ribs?”  Lifting an arm, he shows his side, one of the only parts completely bare of tattoos on his torso.  Cocking my head, I shrug.

“I mean, your choice, Walker.”  

Glancing up at me for a second, he turns back to the mirror.  “I just wanted your input, man.”  His voice is combative, raw, and I can hear the vulnerability just under the surface.  Okay.  Okay.

Stepping a bit closer, I look over the designs that already cover his body.  “Where are the choices?  And Christ, Donovan.  Have you ever thought about leaving some muscle for the rest of us?”

His lips twitch into a grin, chasing away the frown from moments before, and he flexes like a guy in a bodybuilder competition.  “You impressed, Baird?”

Shaking my head, I glance down at my not-quite-six-pack.  “You may need to work up some sort of regime for me.  I can’t compete with all of you.”

He laughs sharply and shakes his head.  “You must have lost your damn mind.  Kai would have my head on a platter if I changed a single thing about you, man.  If she… when she gets back, if she thinks I’ve dared to alter her mountain man, I don’t even want to know what she’d do.”  

I rub my hand over my face to hide a satisfied smile.  Truth.  Kai has never complained.  “Alright.  Choices?  For the tattoo?”

He points to his side, then to a spot on his thigh, and a small, uncovered spot on his arm.  “I think the ribs, Lach.  It’s the only area that’s really open on my torso.  And I want it close to my hea…  I just like it on my upper body.”

Walker’s face flushes red with embarrassment.  He wants it close to his heart.  And God damn if that doesn’t hurt something inside me.  I have family.  I have sisters and brothers-in-law and parents.  Nephews, nieces… I’m surrounded by love.  Sometimes suffocated by it, when I go home.  I forget that not everyone is that lucky.  Kai isn’t.  Gemma isn’t.  I don’t know about Walker.  But it would be worth it to find out.  And suddenly it strikes me how little I know about the guys, beyond our shared bond with Kai.  I have to fix that.  Deo was right.  We can’t be broken pieces expecting Kai to make us whole.  

“Do you have family, Walker?” I ask, the question pushing out of my mouth before I can think.  He freezes, his entire body tensing, and I can see the effort he makes to answer me.

“Not… not much.”  He’s defensive but trying not to be.  

“I mean, other than me.  And Kai.  And the guys.  Obviously.”  Staring at the mirror, I look at us, standing next to each other, and come to a decision.  One that's just me and Walker, outside of Kai.  Locking eyes with him in the reflection, I flashback to when I first met Kai, when she was a scared mouse curled up in a chair, exhaustion written on every line of her face, and I realize that the angry, defensive man in front of me isn’t much different.  Not really.  Pointing to his side, I say, “I agree.  The ribs. And once you ink that on you, there’s no getting rid of us.  You know that, right?”  Shaking my head, I sigh and add casually, “My mom is going to fucking love you when she comes out to visit.  Just prepare yourself, because the moment she gets to the house, she’s going to expect you to eat for days.  You’ll have to let me know if it’s too much for you – not the eating.  The mothering.  Though no promises.  She’s a force of nature.”  Walker turns to look at me, confused.

“Your mom?”  

“Oh yeah.  I come with baggage in the form of family, and if you’re mine, you’re theirs as well.  You won’t have a choice.  I’m just warning you in advance.  Think it through, because once you get that tattoo, that’s it.”  

He looks away again.  “Lachlainn.  You can’t be serious.  You think they’re just going to accept all… all this?”  He motions around the small parlor, lips twitching unintentionally as he glances over Deo’s pained face.  

“They will.  They love the people I love.”  I put purposeful emphasis on the words, and I see his eyes widen.  Looking straight at him, I make sure he hears what I’m saying.  “They’ll probably be thrilled, actually.  They always wanted a bigger family but had to stop after my little sister.  Extra sons?  They’ll lose their minds.  That’s just how they are.  Is it unconventional?  Sure.  Will it take some time to adjust?  Maybe, for my parents.  My sisters.  Not the kids.  Oh hell.  The kids.  They’re going to crawl all over their Uncle Walker.  No doubt.”

Walker’s eyes flash, and he swallows hard before stalking out of the room, snapping, “be right back,” over his shoulder.  But I’m getting used to his ways and know that he’s not mad.  He’s scared.  And his fear is a sword and a shield, keeping him from everything he wants.  

Sighing, I watch him walk away, before turning to check on Deo, who is breathing slowly and deeply through the pain, eyes closed tightly, and then move to Jonah, where he is sitting, mellow in the chair on the far side of the room, admiring the stencil the girl has mocked up.

“Nice…” he says consideringly.  “Clean work.”

The girl working on him doesn’t even look up; she put up with about half an hour of our inane chatter before shoving AirPods in her ears and zoning out.  Not that I blame her.  The level of awkward in the room between us was palpable when we first got here.  The guys all looked really dubious – to be honest, I don’t blame them.  The outside of the place doesn’t exactly give you confidence when you first see it.  Horned Puffin Piercings and Tats – the only tattoo shop on Vashon Island – is in an old, run-down building with a drab, white exterior and a flickering-neon “Tattoo Parlor” sign in the window.  But it’s run by three friends who keep the inside meticulously clean and who are, to be honest, too talented to run a little shop out on Vashon.  It’s almost like the outside is an effort to drive people away.

Despite that, they’re usually booked out at least a couple of months in advance, with people from Seattle and the surrounding areas coming out via the ferry just to get their work done there.  They don’t take many appointments, though, and the windows of Horned Puffin Tats are dark four days out of seven.  When we’d called the number listed on the door, they’d hung up on us immediately.  Four calls later, and the promise of time and a half, we’d had two of the three very pissed-off artists yawning and stumbling down the stairs at the side of the shop from the apartment overhead. 

“What are we doing, folks?” the girl-half of the duo had mumbled, blinking blearily.

Walker had glanced at me uneasily.  “Uh.  Yeah, if you guys are too tired or whatever, we can come back…”

She and the guy with her had broken out into hyena-like laughter, holding up shaking hands to each other, like there was some weird inside joke between them.  “Shit.  Yeah.  Your lines are gonna be scra-bambled like eggs, son!”

Hideo’s eyes had gone wide, but I stepped forward and said gently, “Hey.  I’m Gemma’s friend.  You did my last piece?”  

The girl gave me a blank once-over before recognition flared in her eyes.  “Oh.  Shit.  For sure – the lumberjack.  Dude!  Yeah.  I did your flowers.  Right?  The hibiscus and the cantuta.  You take care of it?  Need a touch-up?”

I shook my head and redirected her, trying to get her to focus.  “No.  I’m good.  We’re all using the same design.  So just one stencil.”

Jonah turned curiously to me, listening in to the conversation.  “You have a piece, man?  I’ve never seen it…”

The male tattoo artist frowned at Jonah.  “Bad form.  You’re done up.  You should know that you don’t ask unless it’s in an invited place.  One piece?  Y’all getting matching tats?”  He started laughing again, like the idea amused him.  “What are we doing?  Locks and keys?  Sun and Moon?  Butterflies and bumblebees?”

“Butterflies!” the girl laughed, and they went off again, cackling.  I could tell it was making the guys really nervous, but, in a way, it was fun to watch.  To be honest, I didn’t trust them either, until I saw their finished work.

Still, Hideo turning really pale under his skin had me reaching for our design.  “No.  No butterflies.  This.”

The two looked at it consideringly, then at each other, then back at the piece.  “Sick,” the guy said, and the girl nodded in agreement.

“Sick.  Okay, we’ll do it.  You good with some minor adjustments?  Come on in.  Money up front.  Let’s talk sizes and locations.  And who’s paying?”

“I am,” I said simply, and when the others tried to protest, I turned to them and held out my hands to quiet them.  “I’d like to do this.  Okay?  I know you can handle yourselves, obviously.  But let me do this.”  I don’t know why it felt important to me, but it did, and they could tell, so they let me.  

“We can do two at a time.  Who’s first?”  

Hideo had immediately stepped forward, pulling his shirt off, muscles flexing taut on his back.  “Me,” he’d said and taken the first chair.  Jonah had shrugged and followed the girl to the other, where he’s now resting comfortably in his seat, his forearm turned to expose a large, blank expanse of skin from the edge of his ever-present, leather cuff on his wrist to his elbow.  

“Here.  The whole thing,” he motions, indicating the area, and the girl nods.

“Cool.  Bracelet off, though.  If we’re doing the full thing, yeah?”

Jonah pales slightly, enough to catch my attention, and clenches his jaw tightly.  There’s a long beat, as though he’s debating what to do, and then, once he makes up his mind, he doesn’t hesitate, moving with deliberate purpose, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

“Okay.”  The word is dark, laden with tired resignation, and I realize in that moment that I’ve never seen Jonah without his leather cuffs.  As soon as he takes it off, I understand why.  Several thin, shiny scars slice across low on his wrist, pale on his darker skin.  He stares down at them, and, without turning to me, mutters, almost defensively, “Stealing happiness doesn’t always make you happy.”

I nod, not replying, not really knowing how to reply.  The girl glances down at them and just asks, simply, with no inflection, “You want those worked in, covered up, or left bare?” 

Jonah's eyes are still locked on his wrist, and he takes a shaky breath.  “Lachy?  What do you think?”

His face is tight, expectant.  I crouch in front of him, looking down at his skin.  We’re all stripping ourselves to bone in front of each other lately.  Maybe it’s necessary, but it’s painful and raw.  And there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that struggle, with honoring the past that has made us who we are.  The goal isn’t ever perfection – that would be a wasted effort, an impossible task.  The goal is progress, it’s growth, and it’s moving forward in the face of everything that is holding us back.  Keeping my voice even, calm, I answer as nonchalantly as possible.

“Up to you, Jonah.  Nothing to be ashamed of, so no reason to cover them.  But they’d incorporate into the wings of the raven or the lines of the arrow, depending on how it’s positioned.  Either way, you’re good.”  I pause, then continue carefully.  “You don’t ever need to apologize for battles you've waged and the trials you’ve overcome.  Even the best of sailors gets lost in the fog at sea sometimes, Jonah.  Maybe you couldn’t see the lighthouse when you needed it.  Or didn’t have a compass to guide you back home.”  Tapping the stencil on his arm, I look up to meet his eyes.  “Well, now you do.  A compass and a shield, an axe and a home.  And the North Star, shining for you as bright as she can, if you just open your eyes to see it.” 

He looks up at me then, like he’s been waiting for a judgment that never came, and studies me for a minute, before answering the girl.  “Yeah.  Let’s just incorporate them into the design.”

“No prob,” she says easily, already pulling out her iPad and changing the mockup on it slightly.  “Do it all the time.  Not a bother.”

The tension drains from Jonah’s face on a shaky breath.  Laying a hand on his back, I ask, “What about me?”

“What about you?”  I can tell he’s grateful for the distraction.

“Where should I get inked?”

“Where are you inked already?” he asks pointedly, and I sigh.  Giving away all my secrets, one by one, I think ruefully, but I don’t mind.  Not really.  Not with Jonah.  So I unbutton my jeans.

“Whoa!  Whoa, man!” he says jokingly and covers his eyes.  “I don’t need to see what you’re working with.”

Cuffing him roughly on the back of his head, I roll my eyes, then pull down the corner of my jeans to expose a small, intricate tattoo on the inside corner of my hip bone.  It’s a highly detailed, incredibly delicate, black-and-white design that’s photorealistic.  A small cantuta flower drips glistening tears of water onto an open hibiscus flower, just below.  The design is simple but beautiful, deep blacks shadowing the flowers and making the drops of water stand off my skin in almost unnerving 3D.  

Jonah tries and fails to hide a grin.  “That’s… that’s pretty dainty for ya’, big man…” he teases.  “But it’s gorgeous.  Some of the best work I’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks,” the girl replies casually.  “Took me a little to get it just right.”  She looks at it through critical eyes.  “I’m gonna touch up the shading when I’m done with your other one,” she says, holding up a hand as I start to reply.  “Wasn’t a question.”  Pointing out a little section that looks just as amazing as the rest, she sighs.  “Stupid cantuta.  That little bit needs to be cleaned up.  Qantuta, actually.  Right?  Quechua people?  I did some research.”

Jonah tilts his head, listening to her ramble, and I see the moment understanding dawns on his face.  His smile falls away, and a look of such sympathetic compassion replaces it that I can’t look at him, staring at the wall instead.

“Quechua-Huachihpaeri.  And the hibiscus for Hawai’i.  Right?”

I shrug.  

“That’s a Kai tattoo…” Jonah says softly.  “Does she know?”

“She can see it when she sees my new one to go with it.”  My words are gruff, not inviting further discussion.

“Is that like… is that just something that you have for her?  Or–”  Twisting away from me, he looks down at the design on his arm.  “Can you do it smaller?  Like, in the center of the compass rose?”

The girl sighs.  “Can I?  Yeah.  Of course.  Will I?”  She glances at me.  “It’ll cost more.  To redo the design.  And I’ll have to do all the centers, so it will take longer.”  Then her head snaps back to Jonah.  “Wait.  Did you say it’s a Kai tattoo?  Like Kailani?  Gemma’s friend?”

He nods.  “Actually, this whole thing is one giant Kai tattoo.  Why?  Do you know her?”

A little smile breaks through the concentration on her face.  “Yeah.  I know her.  She’s funny.  Always comes when Gemma gets her ink.  We’re fans.  She has a good vibe.  You’re… uh… you’re all getting matching tattoos about her?”  The question is casual, but leading, like she’s curious but doesn’t want to push.

Jonah glances at me, then over at Hideo, whose tattoo artist pauses at the question, and Walker, who at some point during our conversation has come back into the room and started listening.

Ah, fuck it, I think and shrug.  I just don’t fucking care what people think.  I’m not giving away my happiness that easily.  “Yeah.  We’re her boyfriends.”

The silence is deafening.  

“You’re… her… boyfriends?  In the plural?”

“In the plural.”

“Ah… cool.  Cool, cool, cool,” she answers, looking down at the stencil in her hand.  “Soooo… Kailani tattoo?”

Hideo, surprisingly, is the one who replies.  “Family tattoo.”  The assurance in his voice is stone, and we exchange glances.  Family.  That’s what we are.  What we’re building here, without Kai.  Being strong enough together that we can support each other.  Not just depending on Kai to connect us.  Like a net.  We’re tying ourselves together to catch her if she falls.

Looking down at the tattoo I designed, I consider the parts of it that form the whole.  The basis of it is a giant compass, divided into sections.  The north–south line is a long, detailed arrow, the tip pointing up.  It’s not a solid arrow point, but the lōkahi of the Hawaiian people.  The feathering on the bottom is an eagle’s tail, done in a Tlingit totem design.  There is braided twine around the shaft of the arrow in exquisite detail.  

Across the center of the compass is a detailed Viking axe, the blade sharp and curved, running east–west.  There was no debate; Maddox may not be here, but he is part of us, whether he wants to be or not.  

In the north-east section is an elaborate mountain scene – the lines of Mt. Rainier clear in the distance – with pine trees and a small cabin in the woods tucked into the picture.  Our family home, for Walker, who, despite his best efforts, has somehow become so central to our little, found family that it is difficult to imagine how we would work without him.  He has taken charge of our family calendar – sending out group texts about birthdays, reminders about allergies, made a chore schedule…  It’s like he watched every episode of some show about what family means and is recreating it with us.  For a guy who never had much of a family at all, he’s really leaning into the idea of building one piece by piece.  

Below that, in the south-east section, is a large, black raven, wings outstretched in flight.  It’s a real-to-life shape but has Tlingit patterns on it, with the lovebird design hidden in the center of its back.  The raven fades into smeared lines on all its edges, like watercolor running, drops of black splattering around it like flicks of paint.  It’s all Jonah.  His motion, his history, his connection to Kai – there in flared, black wings.

The south-west corner is a shield, an intricate design of cherry blossoms on its face.  Hideo, who kept Kai from harm for as long as he could, who, even in his lies, did everything within his power to keep her safe.  And since she has been gone, he has extended that shield over the rest of his chosen family – he finishes Walker’s reports when Walker collapses at night.  He watched Jonah fall apart, let him go as far as was safe, then pulled him in.  He runs interference with CDS, with the SPD – has danced to Gomez’s tune – all to protect us.  Hideo would quietly, and without flinching, let himself bleed out if it meant one of us would keep breathing.  

The upper north-west corner is a finished compass, with the North Star just off its edge.   And now, in the center of the compass rose, a small cantuta flower pouring drops of dew into a curved hibiscus.  The entire thing is beautifully black and white, shades of grey highlighting the lines and shapes that make our family and seeing it on paper has me lifting a shaking hand to rub my face.  We’re coming, Kai.  Just hang on a little longer.  We’re coming.  

It suddenly seems like a waste of time, sitting here, getting her written on our skin, when we don’t even have her, and I feel a beast rise inside me with claws and chaos.  Deo, of all people, sees some wild emotion crashing over my face and quietly asks the guy tattooing him for a break, before coming to me.  

He hesitates, just for a moment, then reaches out and pulls me into an awkward and totally unexpected hug.  I freeze, not knowing what to do.  This isn’t… he’s not really a hugger, and this is a full, real hug, not the guy-hug with a half arm and a punch.  But he’s committed to it, despite how completely strange it feels.  Not even seconds later, I feel Jonah bounce up and join in, his natural happiness bubbling to the surface.  

“Walker!  Get in here!  Group hug!” he commands, and I sense, more than see, Walker roll his eyes before he reluctantly wraps his arms around us all.

“This is so fucking weird,” he mutters under his breath, and I can’t help but agree.

“Tanaka, not that I don’t appreciate it, but…”

“I know.  I don’t know what I was thinking,” he replies, astonishment clear in his voice.  “I–”

“We need to do this more often!” Jonah interrupts.  “Hug it out!  Right on!”  

“No.  No.  I draw the line at this becoming a regular thing,” Walker snaps.  

“Agreed,” Deo replies, and I nod.

“Cool.  Cool, cool, cool.  Love the love, ya’ know?”  The girl tattoo artist is staring at us like we’re aliens, not that I blame her.  “But like, when you’re done hugging?  We need to get to it, right?”

And suddenly I realize that, despite the discussion about not hugging, we’re all somehow still hugging.  In the middle of a tattoo shop.  With no shirts.  And two very confused artists staring at us.  

“Maybe no one tells Kai about this moment,” Deo says thoughtfully, carefully releasing me.

“Fuck no.”  Walker’s agreement is immediate and undeniable.

“No way!  She’s gotta know!  She’ll love it, guys!”  Of course it’s Jonah.  The three of us turn on him at once, but he grins and holds his hands up.  “No secrets!  Remember?  I’m gonna tell her all about how Deo sneak-attacked Lachy into a semi-naked brohug for the ages.”  Laughter is spilling from his words as he turns to Deo, boops his nose, and says in a voice one would use on a toddler, “You’re a little marshmallow, aren’t you?  Yes, you are!”   

The sheer control it takes Deo not to level Jonah is impressive to see.  Both Walker and I step carefully between him and Jonah, just in case.  Instead of getting angry though, Deo takes a deep, shaking breath, and then, out of nowhere, starts laughing helplessly, his entire body shaking, eyes watering.

“A… a… a… fucking… marsh… mallow?” he manages to gasp out.  “What… the fuck… is wrong… with you?”  

And it’s contagious, hearing our tightly controlled brother just fall apart.  Walker breaks first, and then, helplessly, despite everything, all the worries and weight of the world, I crack, laughter rumbling from me like an avalanche on a mountain.  We’re not perfect; this moment is a mess; we’re missing two of our family; but somehow, just for now, things seem like maybe there’s a way forward.

After the Shop

Walker

The third tattoo artist showed up a couple of hours later, rubbing his eyes and looking around the shop, seemingly confused, like he’d never held a tattoo gun before, but he immediately slapped the stencil on my ribs and got to work.  And God damn, it hurt like fuck.  No wonder I didn’t have anything on my ribs before.  Deo took it like a champ for about four hours, but when he tapped out, Lachy stepped forward and silently pointed to the area directly over his heart when asked where he wanted his ink.  

Hours later, all of us wrapped and carrying strict instructions on how to care for our new pieces until we could return to finish them up, we returned home.  Home.  The word is feeling less and less weird in my mouth.  More natural.  Home.  

Lachy immediately went to work in the kitchen, starting dinner for us all, while Deo opened his laptop and checked emails.  Jonah just sat at the table, staring down at his arm thoughtfully, flexing it slightly, studying the design.  Of all of us, his is the closest to finished, just due to the size difference, but he still has a lot left to be completed.  The length isn’t that different than the piece on my ribs, actually, since his goes from the crook of his elbow all the way down to the bend of his wrist.  It’s just the proportions.

“Should we have included Gemma?” he asks suddenly, and he and I exchange worried glances.

“Shit,” I reply in agreement.  “Gemms should definitely be included.”

“Gemms should be included where?” she calls from the doorway, making Jonah jump.  “But I agree, I should be.  Everywhere but the bedroom, ‘cause… weird, you know?”  Her words are teasing, but her tone is exhausted.  She’s been a shadow since Kai disappeared.  We don’t see her much at all, though one of us checks on her daily.  She’s back working at the gallery after a brief leave of absence, and will occasionally come up for dinner with us, but lately, more often than not, her boyfriend comes over, so she just stays down at her place.  

Gemms stopped asking us for updates about Kai a couple weeks ago.  Now she just opens the door to their little cabin when we knock, looks at us expectantly, then presses her lips together like she’s holding back tears.  Lachy gave her a section of his shed right after we returned, and she spends most of her free time in there, working on massive canvases that are stunning explosions of violence and sadness.  As soon as she finishes one, Lachy has a new blank one waiting.  I don’t know what he does with the completed pieces; to the best of my knowledge, Gemma hasn’t asked him either.  She just disappears into her art for as long as she can, emerging only to sleep, eat, or work.  Occasionally she’ll stumble up after a marathon session to curl up in Kai’s room here in the main house, but she usually disappears before anyone wakes up.   

“We got family tattoos,” Jonah says, as though it’s explanation enough, and she half-floats, half-trips into the room, pulling my lips up into a reluctant grin.  She’s just so… so freaking Gemma.  And I’m suddenly reminded, pretty fucking painfully, of an image of her and Kai walking out of her bedroom together, somehow looking like blood sisters despite their differences, wearing these cute-as-fuck fluffy buns in their hair and matching outfits with little avocado necklaces.  And Kai looked so cautious, so worried, but Gemma had been this fierce mini-warrior, ready to throw down for the tall, silent girl behind her.  Christ.

“Oh.  Yeah, I know.  I helped Lachy work on the initial design.”  Her voice breaks me out of my reverie.  “How’d they turn out?”  She moves over to Jonah and studies it with a critical eye.  “Oooo.  Nice.  They’re going to be gorgeous.  I like the changes, Lachy!”

He grunts from the stove, and she laughs, a kind of hollow sound, more the memory of a laugh than a laugh itself.  

“You should be in here somewhere,” I mutter, twisting to try and look at my side.  Her face softens, eyes glistening.

“Why, Walker.  Of all people I wouldn’t have thought…  Thank you.  Sincerely.  But this is a thing for you guys.  And there’s room for her to include me, if she wants to.  We already have matching ones, but there are spaces–”

“She has a tattoo?  Of what?”  Surprisingly, the question comes from Hideo, and Gemma turns to him.  So he doesn’t know everything about Kai, I think ungenerously, a quick grin flashing across my face.  Which he catches.  Of course.

“You’ll have to ask her,” she replies gently.  “It’s a sister thing.”

“Well, I’m putting you in.  Once you guys decide what to do.  You’ll go on mine.”  Jonah’s tone is casual, but firm, and Gemma scrubs a hand roughly across her eyes.

“You guys don’t have to adopt me, you know.  I appreciate the thought, but just because you have her doesn’t mean you have to be saddled with my mess too…”  She’s half-laughing, half-fighting back tears.  

“You’ll go on mine, too.”  The words are out of my mouth before I can consider them, and I shrug at her surprised look.  “You’re on the family calendar.  You’re Kai’s best friend.  More than that.  Her first friend.  Her first chosen family.  So you’re ours now, too.”

Everyone is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.  And maybe I have, going from no family to just adopting every passing person.

“So… Gemma’s going where?” Lachy asks, clearly trying to help me out.  He considers Jonah’s tattoo, the only one we can all see easily.  “A paint brush?  On one of the compass lines?”  

We all move to look, as Gemma slowly and silently falls apart.  Taking a deep breath, she tries to speak.

“You guys.”  Her voice is wobbly, cracking on the words.  “Seriously.  You’re Kai’s…  You don’t have to include me.  That’s not what this is about…  Maybe not everyone wants…”

Deo turns to her sharply, and they lock eyes.  Suddenly I remember their history together.  How close they were, and how they never really had time to resolve that.  I know Hideo was really hurt over everything that happened.  I never really considered it, but now, with Madds leaving, I have more sympathy for how it must have felt for him – in his mind having been abandoned by his friend and partner.  Before knowing Kai, Gemma’s actions seemed like a betrayal to Hideo.  After knowing Kai, Hideo’s actions seemed like a betrayal to Gemma.  There are so many layers here – it’s hard to remember that they were something to each other before all of this.  And how Kai is not the only tie that binds them.  

“Well,” I say gruffly.  “We don’t all have to get the exact same thing.  The basic design is the same.  There’s room to work off it.  And discuss it further in the future.  We don’t need to decide now.”

But Hideo hasn’t spoken.  And Gemma hasn’t spoken.  They’re just sitting there, a world of silence and unsaid words between them.  I want to do something, anything, to help us through this moment, but… but I’m tired.  And suddenly feel sick to my stomach, like I’m going to throw up, because this – what’s playing out in front of me – I recognize the anger and hurt and the rawness of losing someone who mattered to you.  All at once I’m so… so fucking furious with Madds for leaving, for giving up on this family, on us, that I can’t see straight.  He just abandoned us without a fucking word, and I want to scream or hit something, because I can see us echoed between Hideo and Gemma.  And I just know.  I know there’s no coming back from that.  That I’ve lost someone I can’t replace.  Because here’s our mirror, right in front of me.  Here’s what’s going to happen if and when he finally comes back.  Some mountains are too high to climb.  

I’ve been pushing myself so hard, filling the space in every moment in the day so I don’t have time to think about Kai.  But also, I’m realizing, so I don’t have time to think about Maddox.  About the loss of that friendship.  That family.  So I don’t have time for that anger to grow and burn and turn poisonous.  So I don’t have time to examine the sadness that is so dark and consuming if I looked at it, I’d drown.  Kai, Kai, Kai, my mind cries.  But also, Maddox. 

I’m shaking, hands clenching and unclenching, but I don’t move otherwise.  I know what’s coming.  The bitter words.  The accusations.  The coldness and clarity of open hatred.   The contempt.  All of the flavors of hurt in a betrayal’s wake.  I grew up with this.  I know this path.  I know where this leads.  There’s only one road, and it’s ugly and full of violence and vengeance.

Hideo clears his throat, and I tense.  

“I think…” he begins carefully, choosing his words like you’d choose steps on a crumbling mountain path.  He pauses, then tries again, voice pitched low, almost inaudible.  “I think… that we could expand the paint splatters from the raven’s wings.  Incorporate them around the tattoo in other places.  It would fit you in.  Perfectly.  It was an oversight to leave you off, but you… you’re necessary… to this…”

There is a stabbing in my heart.  A pain I don’t expect and can’t explain.

Gemma doesn’t move, just stares at him, tears spilling over the edges of her wide eyes, streaming unchecked down her cheeks.  “Are you sure?” she asks tremulously, and he nods.

“Gemma.”  There’s so much emotion in the one word – an apology, and forgiveness.  Hurt and regret.  A door shutting on the past, and a window opening to some unknown future.  “We are a family.  With everything that means.  Good and bad.  It’s… it’s what I want.  It’s what I want.  If that’s alright with you.  Okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers back, voice breaking. 

He nods, jaw clenching.  “So.  We’ll just add that next time we go in.”  It’s a statement, not a question, but we all murmur agreement anyway.  

As Deo stands and moves to the kitchen to help Lachy, he pauses, then lays a single, hesitant hand on Gemma’s shoulder.  Without looking at him, she lifts her own up to squeeze his once, gently, before he moves on.  And some strange, quiet hope is born in my heart.  Because fuck.  Maybe… maybe if Deo and Gemma can make it work… maybe it won’t all disintegrate.  Maybe I’ll get Kai.  And Madds.  And all of them.  And it won’t break or fall apart but will be written into me, permanent.  Like ink on my skin. 

Group

Maela

That damn camera.  That cursed bastard of a fucking camera, with its little red eye, winking so slyly at me.  All.  Night.  Long.  What an insufferable prig!  “Twat,” I think.  Toadying up to the nurses like that, reporting back like a good little sycophant.  I scowl, wishing I could have had coffee instead of herbal tea with breakfast.  My limbs are melted wax, pooling onto the hard, wooden chair, and my head is stuffed with cotton wool.  But caffeine will give me heart palpitations, and the medicine already puts me at risk of a blood clot.  I yawn and scratch my head.    

The moderator’s voice is too bloody jolly.  Does she really think it’s fun, baring our souls to a room full of strangers?  Why do I need to attend Group anyway?  I don’t see how reliving the attack will make me feel better.  I don’t even remember it, just the sharp pain as my head hit the metal.  And I’m not going to talk about the guys.  I don’t care how much she wheedles and coaxes.  They may only have been a dream, a beautiful phantasmagoria, but they were mine.

Another yawn escapes me, and I clap my hand over my mouth.  I’m not sure the new pill is helping, and as for the hypnotherapy!  I must not be very suggestible.  Dr. Beaufort’s getting worried; I can tell.  Her voice is a little brusquer when she speaks, the lilt now jagged peaks and clefts, and she’s taken to tapping her finger-pads together when we meet.  But maybe she’s right that we just need to give things time, because, at moments, the fog will part, and I’ll catch a glimpse of my former self, before the dank tendrils rise again. 

I look around the room.  It must have been the day nursery once, back when the house was a stately home.  The walls are painted a simple cream, and the two small sash-windows, facing south, are fitted on the outside with iron bars.  I fancy that there must have been a cupboard in one corner, where the children’s books and toys were stored, and over there a red-saddled rocking horse, dappled white and grey, and in the other corner a globe.  I feel like a rag doll tossed on top, spinning and round, not knowing where I’ll end up.  I shift in the chair and stare at the silken flower arrangement, blooming in shades of crimson, orange, and gold, in the fireplace opposite, and feel my eyelids grow heavy.           

“Maela?  Would you like to say anything?”  The moderator’s gentle query snaps me out of my daydream – so close, I was so close to respite – and I look up at her with something approaching hatred.  Enid Garner is a handsome woman, in her early fifties I’d say, wheat-blond hair swept back from a broad forehead into a smooth chignon, hazel eyes, so pale they’re almost amber, fixed on me behind poppy-red glasses.  She’s draped in soft-brown cashmere and is wearing a gecko brooch.  As she notes my expression, her face tightens, but her voice remains annoyingly jocund. 

“Maela?  It’s been a while since you’ve shared with the group.  Why don’t you tell us how you are today?”

I shrug.  “Fine.”  What else am I going to say?  That I’m miserable here, no matter how many treats they give me?  That I’m in mourning for the girl I was, the one who smiled easily and believed in the promise of tomorrow, for the woman I was becoming, the one who was learning to respect herself, to know that she was admirable, to trust that she could be better?  That I miss the guys, still can’t quite accept that they’re gone, their loss a raw ache inside me?  That sometimes it hurts to breathe for the jagged wound of wanting what I know will never be?

“Come now, Maela.  We’re here to help each other.  I understand that you’re still not sleeping well.  How does that make you feel?”

How does that make me feel?  How does that MAKE ME FUCKING FEEL?  Where did this woman get her degree, the University of Asinine Questions?  U Ass Q?  Did she get her master’s in the bleeding obvious?

“Not well,” I answer shortly.

“Just ‘not well’?”  She cocks her head at me, like an inquisitive turtle dove, and smiles.  “You suffered a traumatic event, Maela, and that type of stress is a well-known trigger for insomnia.  Lack of sleep can lead to depression and anxiety over time and puts you at increased risk of diabetes, hypertension, and heart disease.  Chronic insomnia is a serious health issue.  Society says that people should just get on with things, but we know that there’s no shame in acknowledging a problem, don’t we?”  She looks around the group, who nod like obedient little puppets.  “Has anyone else had trouble sleeping?”

One girl raises a hand.  She looks even worse than I feel.  Her skin is pasty and dry, and she has a noticeable twitch.  Her eyes are blood-shot, and she seems a little confused.

“Yes, Cara?”  Ms. Garner looks at her with another encouraging smile.

“I have trouble,” Cara whispers.

“Of course you do,” Ms. Garner nods.  “Insomnia is a well-known side-effect of withdrawal.  But you’ve taken the first step, and you should be proud of yourself.  Are you proud of yourself?”

Cara bobs her head and twists her fingers, licking cracked lips. 

“You’re turning your life around, getting help, and helping others in turn,” Ms. Garner declaims.  “Your story serves as an inspiration to everyone here.  By sharing, you support.”  She turns back to me.  “Right, Maela?”

I shrug again, and she sighs.  “Oh, Maela.  OK, that’s enough for now.  Kailani?  What about you?”  Ms. Garner arches a brow expectantly, and I go back to staring at the flowers.  I could have told her that Kailani’s not all here today, but the group will find out soon enough.  She had a bad night, and I knew, just looking at her when she got out of bed, that she wasn’t herself.  And, despite the blank times, and the manic times, and, lately, the angry times, I know who that self truly is.  The real Kailani is the one I met in my dreams.  Somehow, I can sense this truth.  She’s smart and sassy and funny, a strong, confident woman who can make grown men go weak at the knees; I know this, if only in my mind’s eye.  She’s vulnerable but brave, and she has my back.  And I try to have hers, but I can’t be with her all the time.  I do try to encourage her, to bring her back to herself, but sometimes I’m tempted, so very tempted, just to give in and join Kailani in her dream world. 

I need to do better; I need to help Kailani step out from that nebulous world and into the daylight, to glow with vibrant color under the noonday sun.  But today, today she’s a stained-glass window with panes smashed out by impious hands.  I look at her, throat tightening, and a memory whispers, save both of us.  I shift again on the chair.

“Kailani?  Would you like to share?”  Kailani doesn’t answer, and Ms. Garner sighs again.  “Alright, I think that’s enough for today.  You can all go down to lunch now.  Except for you, Maela.  I’d like a word, please.”

I squirm on the chair as the others file out, Cara taking Kailani’s arm.  No good ever came of the phrase “I’d like a word, please”.  I should have answered.  Should have shared.  Should have supported.  I’ve been trying so hard to be good, to help my brain heal.  I take my medicine, though it makes me sick, and go to Group, to art class, to Dr. Beaufort.  And I haven’t had a setback in ages.  But ever since Kailani and I started rooming together, I’ve felt the tremors, the slight shakes that betoken a shift deep beneath the surface, the slip and stick along the fault plane, the growing tension, stored memories rising up through the strata.  My brain is at war with itself; one misstep, and I’ll fall through the cracks.  And I suddenly feel weightless. 

“I’m disappointed in you, Maela.”

My head comes up.  Ms. Garner is staring at me, a look of distaste on her elegantly made-up face.   “You’re supposed to be helping Kailani, setting a good example, grounding her in the here and now.  You’re also supposed to let us know if you think she’s about to relapse.”  I open my mouth to respond, but Ms. Garner talks over me.  “I wonder why you’re so reluctant to help a fellow patient.  Perhaps you resent her?  You resent being asked to look after her?  Is that it?”

I gape, goggle-eyed.  

“I don’t know, Maela; I really don’t know.  ‘Maela’s such a good girl, a sweet girl.’  That’s what everyone says.  Sadly, I’m afraid I know who you really are: a nasty, disobedient little madam.”

The unfairness of the accusation takes my breath away.  I know I’m not perfect, but for days, weeks, months even – I don’t know how long – I’ve tried to follow the rules, hoping against hope that if I cooperated the doctors would release me and I could go home.  Where my parents would take care of me, as if I was a little girl again, wrap me up in blankets on the squashy couch in our living room, a Disney movie in front of me and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies at my side.  Indignation lends me a smidgen of bravery.  “I’m not,” I mutter.

Pale-blonde brows draw sharply together.  “What did you say?”  She leans forward, as if she could divine all the secrets in my brain, ferret out the mouse from its hiding place.

“I’m not.”  Fighting the urge to shrink back in my chair, I force myself to hold her gaze, while she looks down her nose at me like a specimen on a slide.  The silence thickens, lengthens, and despite myself I bite my lip.  Then she nods.

“First surliness, and now aggression and lying.  You’re a sly one, aren’t you?  Pretending all the while that you were getting better when, really, you’ve been regressing.  I’ll need to tell the doctor about this latest development.  The question is: which one is your real personality?”

I wrinkle my forehead, suddenly confused.          

“Yes, which one?  The gentle, well-behaved little girl who can be trusted not to hurt her fellow patients, or the vicious, filthy little animal who is a danger to herself and others?  I wish I were wrong, but I fear I know the truth.”  She shakes her head.  “I’ve seen your type before.  You were manipulative as a child, weren’t you?”

“No,” I bite out, clenching my hands, nails digging into my palms.

“Oh yes,” she continues softly, as if I hadn’t spoken.  “You pretended to be good to get what you wanted.  Put away your toys, did your homework, ate your broccoli, talked sweetly to your mummy and daddy.  And then you got a reward, didn’t you?  What was it?  A book?  A toy?  A pretty new dress?  Clever girl!  You were never disciplined, were you?  You figured out from an early age that if you toadied up to your mummy and daddy and the teachers, you’d get treats.  You didn’t behave because you wanted to make their lives easier or because it was the right thing to do.  You wanted your quid pro quo.  You’re a born psychopath, aren’t you, Maela?”

Her words are like rocks thrown by a sanctimonious hand.

“No!” I protest.  I’m… I was… I am… I mean…  I do like making people happy, and I hate to get in trouble, but… that’s not because I wanted anything in return.  Was it?

“You always got a reward, didn’t you?  Praise, thanks, a pat on the head?  People were so grateful, weren’t they?  They approved of you.  They thought well of you,” she sneers.  “And here you are again, playing your little games, pretending to be helpless.  Poor Maela, always the victim, always to be pitied.  But you don’t have pity for others!  People like Kailani and Cara.  You don’t speak in Group; you don’t write in your journals; you don’t cooperate in your sessions with Dr. Beaufort.  You didn’t even want to volunteer for the clinical trial!  We cannot help other people, people much sicker than you, if you aren’t completely honest with us.  And this treatment could make such a difference!  You really are quite despicable, aren’t you?  No wonder your parents didn’t want to stay.”

I give a start.  “My parents left because my father had to have an operation.”  Is he OK? I wonder with a pang.  How is he doing?  Matron said the surgery went well, but since then, no one’s told me anything.  I’m to concentrate on getting better, the nurses say.  We’d tell you if there was anything wrong.  But there’ve been no phone calls.  Too upsetting, the nurses replied.  Especially for your mother.  She has enough on her plate.  She’s relieved that you’ve woken up and that you’re enjoying excellent care.  But she might feel pressured to visit if she speaks with you.  Just hearing your voice would make her feel guilty.  And that wouldn’t be fair.  You mustn’t be selfish.

She snorts: “And there aren’t hospitals in England?”

“He doesn’t have insurance here,” I say stoically, past a sudden lump in my throat.

“Under the circumstances, he would have been treated for free.  If your parents really loved you, if they even liked you, they would have stayed.  Perhaps,” she muses, “deep down they hoped you might never wake up.” 

“Not true,” I whisper, shaking my head violently, setting off a throbbing pain in my temple.  All at once I feel nauseous.

She gives me an adder’s smile.  “And yet, they’re not here, and no one has come.  No one!  Not a single friend.  Not even a single colleague!  I can’t say I’m surprised.  Deep down, you’re a nasty piece of work, and everyone can sense it.”

“No!” I say desperately, blinking back unwanted tears.  “No!”  

“Yes,” she corrects me.  “You see, Maela, you are not a good girl.”  She levels an icy gaze on me, eyes like chips of agate.  “You are a very bad girl who doesn’t want to do what she’s told, even though it’s for her own benefit.  We are trying to help you, and you deliberately disobey.  Did you know,” she asks reflectively, “that people used to think that one’s appearance reflected one’s character?  We say that’s poppycock now, of course, and yet, you are the exception that proves the rule.  Look at you!  A short, slovenly, freckled thing, who can’t wash herself properly and doesn’t keep her room clean.  A plain, petulant, disagreeable, self-centered nobody.”  

She laughs, cold mirth peeling out like carillon bells.  “You are not special.  You are a liar.  An attention-seeking fantasist who got herself mugged because she went walking alone in a park at night.  And why were you there?  Maybe, deep down, you wanted to be attacked.  Now, what does that make you?”

Body stiff with denial, I can only look at her, mute, and she nods.  “Very well.”  She presses a button on her pager: “Please attend me in the therapy room.”  She slips the pager back in her pocket and stares at me for a long moment.  Then she smiles, a fleeting expression of pleased anticipation on her face, which chills me to the bone.  But I sit silently, not knowing what else to do.  I’ll have a slice of chocolate cake, I think, chocolate fudge cake.  When I get out of here.  With whipped cream.  I’ll let Kai have the cherry.  The door behind me opens and closes.  

Ms. Garner looks past my shoulder.  “Maela here has been a very naughty girl.”

“Oh dear,” a voice tuts.  It’s Nurse nom-nom.  

“Maela, Maela, Maela.”  A sigh.  Nurse dye-job.

“Yes.  I’m afraid she thinks she knows better than we do.  That she doesn't need to participate.  That the other patients are beneath her.”

Nurse nom-nom clicks her tongue, her moon face disappointed.

“Quite,” Ms. Garner continues.  “So we need to teach Maela a lesson.” 

“It’s for her own good,” Nurse dye-job agrees.  She shuts the door and advances into the room, a crow coming to pluck out my eyes.

“Sometimes,” Nurse nom-nom says, “one must be cruel to be kind.”

Fuck!  I jump out of the chair and make a run for the door, feinting left, then right, trying to dart around them.  I don’t care if I’ll get into even more trouble.  Ms. Garner’s never reacted this way before.  She usually just heaves a big sigh, disappointment cresting and subsiding, when I don’t answer.  Nurse nom-nom catches me easily, grabbing an arm with one meaty paw, and Nurse dye-job seizes the other, holding me pinioned between them.  Fingers digging in like spikes, Nom-nom and Dye-job turn me around and drag me before Ms. Garner.

She looks at me with cool reproach.  “It’s time all this silliness stopped, Maela.  It hurts us to see you this way.  It pains us deeply.”

“It does,” Nom-nom chimes in.  

“We have explained to you, Maela, over and over we have explained, that your so-called memories are nothing but delusions, that you were badly hurt in the attack, that we are trying to help you get better.”

“We have,” Dye-job agrees.

“We have explained to you that you need to do your exercises, take part in activities, make an effort.  The doctors are working hard to calibrate your medicine, to find the correct regime, but cognitive therapy is just as important.  We have explained this.  And still.  Still!  You disobey.  Worse, you refuse to help Kailani.  We asked you to be a model; we trusted you to look out for her.  Even if you don’t care about your own health, do you really have so little regard for her?”

“Do you?” choruses Dye-job, shaking my arm. 

The three of them stare at me, identical expressions of disdain and disappointment on their faces, and all of a sudden, I crack.  I don’t know what to think, what to believe, what to do anymore.  Maybe I really was in a coma; maybe night is day and the earth is flat and the moon is made of green cheese.  And we’re all just drifting helplessly in a vacuum, gasping for air. 

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.  

“What?”  Enid Garner cups her ear in an exaggerated fashion.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, a little louder, hating myself but desperate to leave, to be alone.

“Why?”

“You’re right: I’m a bad girl.  I must do better.”

“Yes,” she agrees.  “You are, and you will.”  Then she’s smiling, like the cat that ate the canary, and cradling my face with cold and gentle hands.  “But I’m proud of you, Maela.  You’ve taken the first step.  Facing our demons, admitting our faults, isn’t easy.  And I understand your attitude, your fears and your frustrations.  I forgive you.”

I tremble, a deer transfixed by headlights, and even though her words are kind, I want to weep.

“Now, I’m afraid you will still have to have a little punishment, just to help cement the lesson, but your cooperation should be rewarded.  So, I’ve changed my mind.  You’ll have an early night and no dinner instead.  Please remember, Maela, that we are here to help you, but we need your help in turn.”

I stare at her, bewildered.  Am I supposed to thank her?  But she only gestures to Dye-job and Nom-nom: “Alright, ladies, you may escort Maela to her room.”  

My head bobs helplessly as I’m marched away. 

Off the Team

Emlyn

I stare at the supercilious prick in front of me, wondering how long it will be before I give in to the urge to deck him.  A backpfeifengesicht.  A face that’s crying out for a fist in it.  I’ve never met one in the flesh, though many have come close.  But this man is the dictionary definition.  I look at him coolly, wondering what it is about him that irritates me so much.  Is it the fussily done hair, artfully waved and set with a slick of gel, with touches of ringlets here and there?  The broad, bovine forehead?  The round, dark-brown eyes beneath round, tortoiseshell glasses that are far too big for his face but “on trend”?  Maybe the soft mouth, framed by a five o’clock shadow that tries to say, “I work hard but I play hard, and, hey, beneath this smug exterior I’m a fun, approachable guy”.  Any one of those elements, in isolation, might be forgiven.  But together?  A face that’s begging – no, aching – to be hit. 

Of course, it could be his personality, or lack thereof.  He should be an accountant.  No, that’s unfair to accountants.  I take that back.  But something to do with spreadsheets.  I can see him having an orgasm over the use of color coding and uniform fonts.  He’s droning on again – maybe it’s his voice, that too precise enunciation with just a hint of Hitler, slightly on the high-pitched side and underlaced with amusement.  What is it about small men and dictatorial tendencies?  With a sigh I force myself to pay attention.     

“I am afraid, Herr Ryder, that we need to take steps to contain the situation.  As I am sure you can appreciate.”

“Oh?”  I lean back in my chair, tapping my pen on the desk.  How Magnus Bühler got into Babylon, I’ll never know.  But here he is.  And here I am, having to endure him.

“According to your reports, Ms. Driscoll was making excellent progress in developing her ability, ja? 

“Yeees?” I drawl, raising one eyebrow.  I know where this is going.  I’d expected it.  It’s a miracle they’ve left me alone so long.

“Well, then, we must consider her compromised.  And, by extension, you.”

I stare at him, narrowing my eyes.  “Compromised.”  The word comes out clipped with annoyance.

“Kronos has her.  We have to assume that she can spy on you at will.  Oh, she won’t have been willing.  Not at first, I am sure.  But by now, they will have… persuaded her.”

My fingers tighten round the pen.  Does this asshole think I haven’t already realized that?  That I haven’t spent the last ten weeks feeling sick with anxiety over what might be happening to her?  The best I can hope for is that Kronos stuck her in a room until she cooperated.  The second best is that they drugged her.  Otherwise…  No.  Put that in a box and shelve it.  The asset needs to be retrieved.  Not Maela.  Not a kind, funny, sexy, smart, and utterly exasperating woman.  The asset.

“We were willing to let you try to find her, to continue to access our resources.  She is a valuable commodity.  We felt, ja? that the risk was worth taking.  But now?  Now we have to protect the organization.  Ms. Driscoll’s ability strengthens with contact, hmm?  The closer she is to a person, the easier for her to spy on them.”

“Yes and no.”  Maela’s telesthesia was erratic.  Ratko and Magda?  Yes, up to a point.  Tennireef?  Elizabeth?  Only after training and a booster.  And she spent hours with Elizabeth but only saw her the once.  So, we can’t say for certain that the ability is contact-dependent.  Which is why, I guess, Babylon has continued to let me work the case.  But my reprieve looks to be up.

“So, as of now, you are no longer Babylon’s chief liaison at MI5.  Your access to our databases has been revoked, your clearance suspended.  No one from Babylon will work with you or take your calls.  Temporarily, of course.  Until we have more information.  We’ll review the situation in a few months’ time.”  He smiles, as if the knowledge that I won’t be stuck on the naughty step forever is a consolation.

I lean forward.  “Fuck.  You,” I say succinctly.

“Herr Ryder,” Magnus spreads his hands, “You let your charge get kidnapped not once but two times.  By the same organization.  Myself, I would have fired you the day after the second incident.  But, as you have been working on the case the longest, the powers that be decided to give you a chance to correct your mistake.  Of course, we took steps to minimize exposure, as I’m sure you noticed.”  He inclines his head.

Oh, I noticed.  I’ve had limited access to Babylon files – just the ones pertaining to Maela, Kailani, and Kronos, as the US team had been sharing information with Elizabeth until we discovered her true identity – but at least I’ve had some access.  And at least felt like I had Babylon at my back.

“But now, now, after all this time and with no credible leads on where the women might be… well, we need to think of the greater good.  Until the threat has been neutralized.”  He picks up some papers and tap, tap, taps them against the desk, ready to put them back into his briefcase.

Neutralized.  The threat.  Not “our agents”: the “threat”.  Not “rescued”: “neutralized”. 

I reach forward and grab his fucking awful tie, pulling him across the desk until we’re face to face.  I’m pleased to see that his papers have crumpled in his hand.  “Now listen, and listen well,” I growl.  “Ears open wide?”  He gargles, eyes bulging, which I take as assent.  “If you or anyone at Babylon harms a hair on Maela’s or Kailani’s head, I will end you.  You will not see me coming.  One day, you’ll be walking down the street, thinking about filling out forms in triplicate like the good little bureaucrat you are.  Perhaps you’ll stop to look at a display of strudel, perhaps some designer Y-fronts.  I’ll come up behind you, pretend to take a look while I choose an artery.  It will tear, and the blood flow to your brain will cease.  The technical name for this condition is cerebral ischemia, a hypoperfusion, to be precise.  This will lead to cerebral hypoxia, or a lack of oxygen, which in turn will result in cerebral infarction, or death of the brain tissue.  While you’re still conscious, you’ll feel weak and uncoordinated; you may even notice you’ve gone blind.  But after a minute, as your cells start to die, I expect you’ll be distracted by the paralysis, or perhaps by the excruciating pain in your head.  You’ll lose two million brain cells every minute thereafter.  After four minutes, you’ll suffer irreversible brain damage, but you could pull through, with help.  I, of course, won’t call for any.  And a mere five minutes later, you’ll be dead, one fewer pen pusher to trouble the world.  Are we clear?          

He flails, gasping, and I take the opportunity to shove him backwards towards the chair, where he lands heavily.  “You… you… you will pay for this!  I warn you!  I will report this incident!”

“I expect you will.  But as I’ve been suspended, what does it matter?  And as long as management understands the possible repercussions of any decision, I can live with a censure.  But just remember that I never, ever, make idle threats.”

“This meeting is at an end,” he hisses and stands up abruptly.  “You are incompetent and insubordinate and entirely to blame for this fiasco.  Through your negligence you have allowed two valuable assets to be taken and suborned by a criminal organization.  And after losing your own brother to it!  One would have thought you would take more care.”

I surge to my feet, fists clenching.  “Fuck.  Off.”

“Oh, I am,” he smiles thinly.  “Good day, ex-Babylon agent Ryder.”

After he leaves, I throw my head back and give a hearty “fuck!” to the ceiling.  I’d punch the wall, but I can’t afford to be hauled up before the disciplinary board of MI5 for “damaging government property”.  I at least need access to MI5’s resources.

Better warn Seef.  I pick up the phone and give him a call.

“Ryder.  What’s up?”

“I’ve been given the heave-ho from Babylon.  Probably permanently, after what I’ve just done.  Some prick from Basel came to deliver the news.”

“Fokken Swiss,” Seef mutters.  “He’s probably on his way over here now.  If you’re off; I’m off.”  He sighs: “It had to happen sooner or later.”

“It did,” I agree. “So, how do you want to proceed? Any bright ideas?  I don’t suppose the U.S. team has come up with anything in the last twenty-four hours?”

“Sweet F.A.”  Seef sighs.  “Walker’s trying to hold things together, but with Maddox going A.W.O.L. and Jonah going off the rails, the team is functioning at reduced capacity.  Speaking of off-roading, how’s Jorge?”

“Still breathing, as far as I can tell.”  I think back to the evening I came home from Thames House to find Jorge’s letter.  At first, I was furious, thinking he was a selfish bastard, a coward, running away from the mess he’d created.  But then, as I started to crumple the paper, ready to crush it into a ball and throw it into the bin, my eye fell again on a single phrase: “I am sorry”.  Simple, unvarnished, no excuses, and even I, Maela’s “man of titanium” (yes, I’d heard her grousing under her breath once or twice when I’d pushed her too hard in training), could sense the pain in those letters.  And I’d thought back over the last few weeks, when we’d come up short, going down one dead end after another in an increasingly frantic search, knowing all the while who had Maela but with no idea where she was nor how to find her; days and nights of too much coffee and too little sleep, of progressively reckless plans soon tinged with desperation; and I remembered, with a wince, how we’d treated Jorge.  By unspoken agreement, Kavi, Seef and I had decided where the blame should fall.  Maela was gone; Jorge had left her unguarded; fiat justitia.  And he knew.  He didn’t need to be an empath to read the verdict in our eyes.  Hell, if I’d taken a moment to extract my cranium from my rectum, I would have seen that he’d already sat and rendered judgment on himself.  Jorge didn’t say much during those weeks; he just threw himself into the investigation, shouldering whatever task we tossed his way.  And every day, his eyes grew a little darker, his face a little more gaunt, his bearing a little more grave.  I didn’t care.  We were all tired, weren’t we?  All sick with worry?  But standing in the kitchen, staring at those three bleak words, the thought suddenly struck me that there are many kinds of courage.  Men are never supposed to show weakness, not in our culture.  Chin up.  Stiff upper lip.  Never apologize; never explain.  Be a man.  Don’t cry.  Stand up straight.  Wuss, wimp, coward, mama’s boy, big girl’s blouse… all the insults we use to try to stifle any softer emotion in men, bury it under a shroud of shame so deep and thick that it’s almost impenetrable.  But what is courage if not owning your mistakes?  And no, not with bravado, posturing like a silverback gorilla, but with an open and honest humility.  I am sorry.  What is bravery if not to stand against society’s dictates, to dare to be whole, to thine own self be true?

And God help me, I thought then, but I was the one who let Maela go.  Seef and I were the trained agents.  Kavi and Jorge are good men, but they’re civilians.  I was so focused on keeping Elizabeth in my line of sight, watching who she was with, where she went, that I overlooked the wait staff.  Still holding Jorge’s letter, I sat down heavily on a chair.  Maela’s abduction was my fault.  I of all people knew what Kronos was capable of.  I slammed my hand into the table, wincing again at the impact, and got up to grab a bottle of whiskey.  There was a nice bottle of single-malt Macallan in the cupboard that would take away the ache.  My fault, I thought dully, my fault.  I chanted the words, like a mantra, in time to my sips.  My fault, my fault, my fault.  

I was three tumblers in when someone answered.  My fault, drink, hold, my fault, swallow.  I took a morbid pleasure in the pain, almost reveling in the sensation of a knife-blade sliding through my ribs.    

“Well, this is a sorry state of affairs.”

My head came up.  “Eadric?”  I looked wildly around the room, hope slamming into my chest.  “Eadric?”

The kitchen was empty, of course, empty and dark, just like my life.  I returned to my chanting and drinking.  My fault, my fault, my fault, My. Fault!

“Is it, brother of mine?”  The words sighed through the room on a draft.

“Oh, fuck off!” I said irritably.

“Look who’s got his knickers in a twist,” Seef replied, coming into the kitchen.

“Oh, it’s you.”  My mouth twisted, half in embarrassment, half in disappointment.

“Yes,” he agreed.  “You gonna keep that bottle all to yourself?  Wouldn’t want you to shake the chicken, and I could use one, after the day I’ve had.”  He sat down and tipped his head back, working the kinds out of neck and shoulders.

I scowled and slid the Macallan towards him.  “Shut up and drink.”

“Done,” he answered.

We finished the bottle in silence, each lost in our thoughts, but mine were no longer quite so stark.

I put out some feelers the next day.  I guessed Jorge might return to Brixton, and he was soon spotted on a security camera, going into some God-awful bar run, as I discovered, by an ex-con.  I went there myself on a busy Friday night, not going inside or even approaching the door, just watching from the shadows beneath a broken streetlamp.  Jorge looked different, harder, and was sporting an impressive shiner, but otherwise he seemed OK.  For the time being, I resolved, I’d keep an eye on him from a distance.  He needed space to come to terms with what had happened.  I knew too well that feeling of impotent rage, of self-disgust, of despair.  I still carried it myself.  

“I was always the one with the brains,” I could almost hear Eadric say.  “You wish,” I snorted.

“But how could you have known what would happen?  To me, or to her?  You and your God complex,” he chided.  And the truth suddenly slammed into me: blame is an easier state to bear than helplessness.  Blaming others, blaming yourself – far preferable to feeling powerless.  Blame at least gives you the illusion of control.  So I would watch and wait and only approach Jorge when the time came to strike.  Seef agreed with me; he too knows regret.

Now, he rumbles, “Good,” before sighing again.  “At least we’ll still have access to the databases at MI6 and MI5,” he reasons.  “I guess I can’t blame Babylon for cutting us loose, though I’m not going to tell the sanctimonious little shit that when he gets here.”

I laugh.  “What do you have against the Swiss?  Is it the people, or just this one specimen?”

“Long story,” Seef grunts.  There’s a pause, then, “I sometimes look up, you know,” he confides, in an offhand tone, “and say, ‘hey there, princess’, just in case she’s listening.”

I swallow hard past the sudden lump in my throat.  “I didn’t realize you cared so much.”

“She gets under your skin,” he answers lightly.

There’s another pause while I digest what he’s just said.  We’ll deal with this development when we get Maela back.  Right now, we have to concentrate on finding her.

“Let’s run through the possible scenarios again.”  I roll my pen through my fingers while I think.  “Where would Elizabeth be hiding the girls?  I’m operating off the theory that she can’t have taken them out of the country; we’ve been monitoring all the ports and airfields, public and private.  She couldn’t have got them on to a commercial vessel, and we’ve followed up on all of the registered departures.  A small boat to France or Holland, maybe, but I think it more likely that she’s kept Maela and Kailani right here.”

“I agree.  Less risky that way.  She could have holed them up in a small house in London and then bundled them into a van and onto the motorway.  Over 200,000 vehicles use the M25 every day, 193,000 between junctions 12 and 13 alone.  She could have taken the girls anywhere in the country.  As long as they stayed indoors, no one would be the wiser.”

“But at least still in the country.  I need to go through Gaia’s financials again, see where they’ve invested here.  As a charitable company, Gaia needs to file an annual set of accounts and a trustees’ report both with the Charity Commission and with Companies House.  Good thing those documents are publicly available; I can’t see getting a warrant signed off otherwise.  Nothing came up on a first sweep, but that’s not a surprise.  Elizabeth knew we’d search the records, so she’ll have chosen her hiding spot carefully.  The girls might not even be at a Gaia facility, although my gut says they are.  She won’t have trusted anyone else to watch them.”

“We’ve tried to tail her whenever she comes over for a meeting.  The trouble is, she’s keeping away.  We lost sight of her right after the gala – if only that ambulance hadn’t cut us off – but since then I’d swear she hasn’t given us the slip.  The trouble is, as you say, she could come or go on a small boat from Ireland or the continent, and we’d never know.  This country has a lot of ports.”

“So we either find something on a document trawl–”

“Or we hope a Gaia employee fucks up and lets something slip.  Oh shit, I have to go.  The prick’s here.”

“Good luck,” I volunteer.  “I’ll see you back at the house.”

I hang up and sit staring for a moment at the black and white print, of London in the 1920s, on the wall.  If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew / To serve your turn long after they are gone, / And so hold on when there is nothing in you / Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”  Kipling’s words ring in my ears.  If you can fill the unforgiving minute / With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, / Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, / And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!  I turn to my computer, typing in the address for Companies House.  “Hold on, Maela, darling.  I’m coming for you.”

A Cottage and a Dream

Maela

I saw a little cottage once, on a travel documentary, just a simple, stone square, with walls painted pink and cream and a grey, slate roof, tucked into a pine-ringed hollow.  There were hollyhocks jumbled with delphiniums and white roses in the garden, and age-worn hills rose up fern-clad behind it.  I often think about that little cottage now.  If I lived there, I’d have two little Cocker Spaniels named Bubble and Squeak.  They’d have big, silky ears and snuffly, black noses and soft, brown fur and come cuddle me whenever I felt lonely. 

These past few days – well, best not to dwell.  I don’t think I would have survived them without Kailani.  She understands: she’s lost both her parents.  I haven’t lost mine, not really, but Daddy…  Maman is absolutely right to blame me; I’m not surprised she doesn’t want to call.  The stress of my attack, you see… complications…  Dr. Beaufort was very kind when she broke the news, but I heard the nurses talking.  “Headstrong…  Never stopped to think…  Selfish.”  Kailani’s helped me get through the dreary hours, just like she helped me get through the time in a coma.  “Just remember.  We’re a team.  No matter what.”  I’ve held those words to me, a coat of mail against the daily blows of reality and memory.  Kailani’s simple presence gives me strength, but her small acts of kindness nourish my soul: a smile, the touch of a hand when the shadows gather, the woeful attempts at hospital corners.  And even though I know I’m supposed to set an example, anchor her in the here and now, I like the dream world we created.  We don’t speak of it; someone is always listening, and that time, those moments in the mist, are precious.  They are ours.  When I’m lying awake at night, heart racing, trying desperately to ignore the bulging springs in the worn mattress and the flickering light in the corner of the ceiling, I like to remember...  We’ll go for coffee one day, I decide, just like we never did then.  When we get out of here.  We can be crazy together.  I’ll get ten cats, and she can feed all the neighborhood squirrels.

When we get out of here.  Dr. Beaufort’s been vague, but we can’t stay at Mt. Ida forever, surely, and we’re both doing so much better.  I’ve learned; there's still enough of me left to make simple observations, to analyze, to come to a conclusion.  Push button; get peanut.  We’re no different from any other animal: monkey see; monkey do.  Humans and chimps share 98.8% of their DNA, after all.  And I’ve learned that if I behave, if I cooperate, if I am a good girl, then I don’t have to take all my pills.  And then I am not so nauseous, so sluggish.  Therapy, Ms. Garner says, can teach me how to control my mood swings, so that, someday, I might be able to function without the medication.  I can learn to compensate for the damaged parts of my brain.  

And I know I can.  I am headstrong, headstrong and stubborn.  Têtue, Maman would say, which caused me no end of trouble in the sixth grade, when a group of boys heard her scolding me.  I was “Tit” for a while.  But I will learn; I will improve; I will get out of here.

The other lesson I’ve learned, well, I’m not very proud of that.  But Kailani sometimes brings things on herself, and I really wish she’d stop to think.  And when she gets in trouble, I get in trouble, unless… I grimace.  I’m supposed to be the mentor, the guide, praise her when she’s doing well, reprimand her when she’s not.  But I hate, hate, hate having to side with the nurses, and I wish she wouldn’t make me.  I sigh as I come to a stop in the wood-paneled corridor and knock on Dr. Beaufort’s door.    

“Come in.”

I push open the door, mumbling hello.

“Ah Maela, how are you today?  Ready for our session?”

“Fine, doctor.  Thank you.  Yes.”  I am always fine; I am always ready; I wear this persona like a well-fitted coat.  Push button; get peanut.

“Excellent!  Alright, Maela.  Why don’t you lie down today?  Yes, just there, on the couch.  Are you comfortable?  Yes?  Good.  Now, remember, there’s nothing to be frightened of.  We’re going to do some exercises to help you relax, just like we did before, and then we’ll have a nice little chat.”

Just like we did before.  And the time before that.  And all the times before.  I’ve seen this film.  It never ends well.  I don’t really understand the logic, if I’m honest.  How will trawling through my dreams help me move past them?  You’d think she’d want me to forget.  But Dr. Beaufort says there must be something that I’ve suppressed, something that will show me the way back to my psyche.  Perhaps, today, I should pretend.  I’ve gotten very good at simulation.  I make up stories when I journal now, talk about my feelings in Group, agree that, yes, the guys aren’t real, that I was in a coma.  I really don’t know what to believe any more: my head tells me one thing; my heart tells me another.  But still I hold them deep, deep in a hidden corner of my soul, unwilling and unable to let them go. 

“Maela?” Dr Beaufort breaks in.  “Are you with me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”  My response is rote; I don’t think I am all here, to be honest.  Sometimes, I feel like a marionette: yes, ma’am and no, sir and if you please and thank you.  I can keep up the pretense during the day, but at night, at night when there’s nothing to distract me from the heart-cry that whispers “maybe”, the “what if” now a prayer, when the gates to the kingdom are barred to me, then I quietly go to pieces.  Or not so quietly.  

“Wonderful.” Her voice is so soothing; I think I could listen to it all day.  If she’d only just speak to me, not ask me to flex and unclench, I know I could fall asleep.  Blissful, luscious, gorgeous sleep, a painting by Klimt in shimmering gold and green.

“Now, today, I’d like us to try something new.”  My ears perk up.  New?  Here?

“I want you to close your eyes.  I’m going to count backwards from ‘ten’ to ‘one’.  When I say the number ‘ten’, you will see yourself at the top of a staircase.  Every time I count out a number, you will go down a step, and with each step you will feel more relaxed.  At the bottom is a door, and beyond that door is a king-size feather bed.  If you can relax completely, the door will open, and you can sink into that soft, lovely bed.  Can you picture it?  How nice it will feel?”

I nod eagerly.  I know exactly what it will look like: a four-poster bed with a delicate lace hanging draped over the rounded frame.  The posters will be richly carved with acanthus leaves and fruits and vines, perhaps a bird or two perched among them.  The birds will sing sweetly from their sylvan perches, and I’ll finally be able to rest.  I close my eyes and picture myself at the top of a narrow staircase, ten little steps between me and the feather bed, and let my breathing slow. 

“Let’s begin…  Ten.”  There’s a rushing noise inside my head, and I’m suddenly peering into shadows.  There’s no light.  Why?  Why is there no light?  “Nine.”  Hesitantly, I put out a foot, balancing on the edge.  Where’s the light switch?  I pat the wall, searching.  “Eight.”  I gulp and take another step, down into the corpse-cold dark.  My stomach rolls, a wave of fear washing over me, but the voice and the bed urge me on.  “Six.”  All of a sudden, I hear music.  Trumpets?  “Five.”  Yes, trumpets. And a tuba, I think.  “Four.”  The music is getting louder.  It’s awful; the tinkling notes of a xylophone run up and down my spine, plucking at my nerve endings.  “Two.”  The crash of cymbals makes me jump, and for a moment I freeze, but I can see a sliver of light below.  “One.”  I am at the door.  

“Open the door, Maela,” the voice commands.  I shake my head, eyes watering.  I’ve changed my mind; I won’t be able to sleep anyway, not with all that racket.  But my hand rises of its own accord, grasping the door handle, and I step into a nightmare.  Strange, technicolored creatures are parading around the room, swirling one into another and reforming as they sing.  I gasp and flatten myself against the wall, reaching out for the handle, but I can’t find it.

“Now, lie down on the bed and make yourself comfortable.”

I sink to the floor, wrapping my arms around my head, trying to block out the flashing lights.  If I stay very still, perhaps I won’t draw attention.

“Tell me about the dream time.”

I look up.  One of the creatures has stopped and is looking down at me.

“Babylon.  What did you dream of Babylon?” the elephant asks.  I stare at it, frozen.

“Let’s start with Agent Ryder.  Tell me about Emlyn Ryder.”  In the center of the room, two fuchsia elephants merge and take Emlyn’s form.  “What did you discuss?  What did he tell you of your ability?  Are there more of you at Babylon?”  I’m mute; I can’t take my eyes away from the Emlephant, which is now striped red and blue, and the first elephant frowns.

“No?  Alright, what about Seef Arend?  Who does he report to?  Do you know?  Has he mentioned any names?”  Seef.  I smile, and the Emlephant turns into a purple chimpanzee.  “You look like a monkey on a stick,” I say.

“Can you see Seef, Maela?  What’s he doing?”

Seef?  No, just the elephants, marching around the room.  Besides, I’d never spy on him, not without permission.  I only watched the guys to hone my ability, so I could learn to leave and enter the visions at will.  And those memories are mine; those moments are special; I’d never betray them.  I’d never betray the guys.  Never.

“What about Emlyn?  Can you see Emlyn?” the elephant coaxes.  “Don’t you want to see him?  I know you miss him.  Go one, take a peek.”

Emlyn’s not real.  Seef’s not real.  Kavi’s not real.  Jorge’s not real.  I chant the words in my head to put up a wall.  I cannot see them.  I never saw them.  I will never see them again.  At that thought, a terrible wail escapes from my chest, and the elephants moan in sympathy. 

The first elephant sighs.  “We need to adjust the scopolamine compound.  I told Phos that 1.5 mg was too high.  Bloody man.  Still, this hasn’t been a total waste.  If we decrease the dosage by 0.5 mg for the next few days, we can try the staircase method of induction again.”  One of the phantoms starts to tap dance, the sound like clicking keys on a computer board, and then I hear: “Alright, Maela, I’m going to count to five, and when I say ‘five’, you will wake up, feeling perfectly calm and refreshed.  One.”  The creatures begin to whirl around the room again.  “Two.”  Red and yellow and green and blue.  “Three.”  Faster and faster.  “Four.”  I’m getting dizzy now.  “Five.  You are fully aware.  Open your eyes, Maela.”

I want to, but I can’t.  My lids are glued shut.  I am trapped in this room without a door, with creatures from a fever dream.  The music starts up again, a psychedelic symphony, and they drag me to my feet, forcing me to join in the dance, passing me from hand to hand until my fingers bleed.  And still we go on.        

◆◆◆

I come to, lying on my bed.  The room is dark, and Kailani’s silent in the bed beside me.  I don’t remember how I got here.  I was having another hypnotherapy session with Dr. Beaufort, and she was telling me to count down, and then… nothing.  Did it work?  Or did I just pass out?  That’s happened a few times.  And most people don’t forget what happens when they’re hypnotized; that’s just a myth.  You only forget if you’ve been told to forget, and I can’t see why Dr. Beaufort would do that.  I’m supposed to be going through my memories to sort out the false from the true.  I must have passed out.

For once, the clock in the corner isn’t blinking, and I sigh.  I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, but sometimes, I just can’t help myself.  Behaving normally in the daytime takes all my energy, all my patience, and tonight, my reserves are empty.

“Hey Kailani,” I whisper into the stillness, “do you want to grab a coffee?  When we get out of here?  We’re both doing really well, don’t you think?  We’re grounding each other and learning to live in the here and now.  Your episodes are becoming less frequent, and I… well, OK, I still have trouble distinguishing – for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone – but I’m trying.  So, coffee?  I have a feeling you’re a mocha girl, like me.  To my mind, what’s not to like about a drink that doubles as a dessert?  Although Jor–”  I stop as a memory hits me, so clear I can almost hear his voice.  “Well, anyway,” I clear my throat, “I was having another session with Dr. Beaufort today, and I suddenly thought, wouldn’t it be fun to share a house?  Maybe a little cottage?  I mean, we get along, right?  And we’ve been through a similar experience, sort of, so… we could help each other.”  I bite my lip.  “Just an idea.  I think you’re my only friend in this place.”  I pause: “The light’s off if you want to say anything.”

Kailani stirs, and I turn my head to face her, just as the clock clicks back on.     

I put the pillow over my face and punch myself in the head.

For Me and Mine

Lachy

There are microscopic pieces of every day when I forget that my Kai is gone and that my heartbeat has paused until she returns – usually late in the evening when the fog comes in over the Sound, or early, early, before it has burnt off for the morning.  For some reason, especially if I’m sitting on our dock, with the silence of the island behind me and the gentle lapping of the water in front of me, I am tricked into thinking that it’s all been some horrible mistake.  That she’s steps away from me, hidden in the heavy brume, that if I stay still enough and look hard enough, she’ll step from the mist, smiling like the Cheshire Cat, hand outstretched.  The shifting shadows in the dying light are always the worst – when a shape appears, and my heart shudders to life again in painful, staccato beats.  They’re devil’s ploys, these suffocating moments of unbearable hope.

If I could will her into existence through nothing by belief, but desire, but love, she would have been here weeks ago.  Appeared in my arms seconds after the team delivered the news, laughing up at me, eyes dancing with mischief.  “They thought I was gone,” she’d say, “but they don’t know you like I do.  They don’t know what you can make happen, just through sheer force of will.”

And they don’t.  Not really.  Don’t know where I came from, the struggle and unutterable sacrifices I made to get to where I am today.  The things I faced to achieve this small sliver of peace – well, I prefer not to think back on them.  There are memories best left in the dark corners of the mind.  But now that I have found this home, now that I have something that I’ve built with my hands and heart, from wood and willpower – I have to wonder what sort of person would think that I’d surrender any part of that without a fight.  Rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension, I stare out at the water in front of me, slowly disappearing into the setting sun.  Who could be foolish enough to think that a man who had Kai would ever give her up?  Someone, my mind whispers, who does not understand love.  Someone who thinks power and purpose hold the same weight as her lips against mine.  Someone who will never be able to comprehend how Kai’s slow, sleepy-kitten blinking in the morning when she wakes up is more compelling than any other thing in the universe.  And if that person cannot fathom the depths of the craters and heights of the mountains that love creates in a heart, then they are vulnerable.  Because they will underestimate what desperation can do to a man.

A sharp crack of wood behind me chokes my throat, but even before turning I know that Kai would never step like that, never make a noise that would disturb my peace.  Before I have time to move, Hideo’s low voice calls out through the night.

“Lachlainn.”  It’s a greeting and an apology all at once, and I motion to the area beside me without turning around.  He moves forward like a ghost, making me wonder if the snap of the branch was a purposeful sound meant to give me warning that he was coming.  It would be very Hideo to think about a detail like that.  He settles beside me, not saying anything.

“Be careful of the dock,” I warn quietly.  “It bites.”  It’s too dark for him to see my lips curl into a sad sort of smile, but he nods anyway.  I can tell there’s something on his mind, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the man, it’s that he’ll speak when he’s ready and usually mean every word.  Hideo is not someone to waste effort on inconsequential things.

“Lachy…”  The word is slow.  “Would you… would you tell me a story about Kai?  Just one that only you know?”  Something shifted between us when we all got that tattoo.  We’re figuring out how to move forward with no walls, and it’s harder for some of us than others.  Deo’s very hesitant.  He knows what he’s asking for, the importance of a memory like that, and when I don’t respond immediately, he starts speaking more quickly.  “It would just mean a lot to know something about her out here.  You obviously don’t–” he pauses when I hold up my hand.

“I don’t mind sharing, brother,” I reply quietly.  “I’m just searching for the right one.”  And I don’t mind sharing – not with Hideo.  Not with Walker, or Jonah.  The other one, well, we’ll have to see.  But we all have little pieces of her puzzle, to keep them safe and put them back together when we find her.  And it wouldn’t do any good to hoard mine like a treasure away from the others.  “Oh… I’ve got a good one.”  I can’t keep the laughter from my words as I think back on the memory of her that I’ve chosen, a bright, shining one, full of meaningless moments that somehow added up to be so much more than the whole.  He leans forward, still not looking at me, but poised in ready attention.  

“So.  You know Kai has a celeb crush?” I ask, voice dancing.  I won’t give away her secrets, but if he already knows, then I don’t mind as much.

The smile is clear in his words when he answers.  “Of course, though she’d never admit it.  The woman hates scary movies, yet for some reason we watched A Quiet Place three times.”

“Don’t remind me,” I groan theatrically.  “She jumped out of her skin for the next month any time I was using my torque wrench for anything.  For some reason it reminded her of the aliens.”

He laughs, tired and short, but real.

“So…” I continue.  “One day we went to the coffee shop in Vashon – her, me, Gemms.  We were grabbing breakfast before going on a hike.  Kai had a chocolate croissant and a large, large coffee.  Plus her phone.  Well.  Who walks in the door of our tiny café on a random Sunday morning in Vashon?”

“Oh no…”  Deo is holding back laughter.  “Oh, no, Lach.”

“Oh yes.  And I’ll say this for our girl.  She kept it together.  100% Kai.  Looking at her, you wouldn’t even have known she recognized him.  But… oh God.  It almost hurts to tell.   She took a deep breath and, after he ordered, straightened up like she was going into battle and went up to him.  Very calmly.  Very casually.  And unless you were paying really close attention, you wouldn’t have seen how hard her hands were shaking.”

He buries his face in his hands.  “There’s nowhere good this is going,” he says, amusement and sympathy warring in his tone.

“No, brother.  No there isn’t.  She very nicely apologized for bothering him, which he was super kind about, and asked if they could take a photo together.  He said yes, and she went to stand beside him.  Somehow – and to this day I honestly don’t know how her brain just short-circuited – she forgot she was holding coffee.  She held the phone up to take the shot, but was shaking so much that she went to steady it with her other hand…”

Deo is full out laughing now, the sound rolling over the water.  There’s something so free in it, so unexpected, that it pulls at my heart a bit.  I’m seeing what he could have been, maybe still could be, if someone had taken care of him instead of used him.  “The coffee went everywhere.  And I mean… everywhere.  On him, on her, on the floor.  Soaked their shoes – it’s amazing how much twenty ounces holds.  It was so painful to see.  I honestly didn’t know I could feel so bad for another human being.  Kai was frozen; he was frozen; and then Gemma walked out and said, ‘What in the actual fuck?’ and–” 

Suddenly, a skittering flash of tiny lights, one after another in a seemingly random pattern runs from the far edge of the forest to the closest edge of the house.  They blink on for a breath, then are gone.  It sends a shockwave through me, and by the time they’ve disappeared I’m already on my feet and moving.  Hideo is just half a second behind me.

“What?”  It’s not even a whisper.  He knows something is wrong, the amusement of the last few minutes draining into ice-cold focus.

“My warning lights.  Someone broke into the barrier fence.  And is in my system.  My guess is they shut down the electric, or something similar.”  

Deo looks around, considering.  “You have a generator?”

“Of course.”

“A plan?”

“Of course.”

He nods.  “Tell me.”

It’s only a moment before he slips off, and I fade away in the other direction.

The night wraps around me as I move panther-like over my land.

My front door is open by the time I get around the cabin, and the outlines of four people hover in the glowing light of the living room.  I pause for the space of a heartbeat – not from fear – there is no hesitation when it comes to my home and my family.  I simply stop to quiet my steps, to consider my next move, to make sure there will be no mistakes.  Because if you come here, to me and mine, with ill-intent… well.  There is only one path forward, one way this will go.  This space is for us, and us alone.  The rest of the world can figure itself out. 

I will protect what is mine.

Grasping at Straws

Hideo

I’m over the edge of the lower deck and back in the cabin before the car pulling into the driveway is even parked.  Moving as quickly as I can, I signal to Walker and Jonah, both of whom are zoned out on the couch watching TV.  They come to attention immediately, training overriding any nerves.  Leaving their show on, they get up noiselessly to stand beside me.  Jonah grabs both his and Walker’s guns from the safe in the living room – mine is strapped to me already.  I don’t leave the confines of our home without it these days.

From outside there is a low commotion of people arguing.  A woman’s voice and two deeper, male voices.  A second woman interrupts the back-and-forth, and I count steps coming up onto the front porch, then hold up four fingers to Walker and Jonah, who nod.  Jonah drifts quietly off to one side of the door, almost out of sight.  Walker and I stand maybe six feet apart, guns trained on the door, waiting.  There’s a bit of a scuffle outside, then a sharp command, and the door swings open.

“Whoa!  Shit!  SHIT!  Okay, Jesus!  We should have knocked!”  A heavily tattooed, pixie-like woman holds up one hand in the universal sign of I’m fucked.  Her other hand is wrapped around a folded laptop.  I almost recognize her, her face tickling some memory in the back of my head, but don’t have time to pinpoint it before the woman behind her steps forward, both men beside her making sounds of alarm.

“Walker…”  Her voice is a studied purr, practiced and meant to calm.  But steel doesn’t melt for the eyes of a pretty girl, so our guns don’t move.

“Chantalle.”  His response is ice.

“I heard you were looking for me?”  It’s a gentle question, and opening, but doesn’t explain why they’re here or why they didn’t knock.  “Can we maybe just put the guns down?”  she asks lightly.  

“No.”  The answer comes from the darkness behind her, and her eyes widen in sudden fear.  There’s not even a whisper of sound when the larger of the two men beside Chantalle suddenly collapses to the floor.  The second doesn’t have time to move before one of Lachy’s massive arms is wrapped around his throat from behind in a brutal chokehold.  I startle, only slightly, but I can see Walker and Jonah both jerk in surprise.  I can’t say I blame them – I knew the plan and still didn’t hear Lachy approach them from behind, didn’t see him emerge from the shadows on the porch to knock out the guy sprawled on the floor.

“I don’t remember inviting any of you to my home,” he says casually, as though there weren’t a man flailing in his grasp, legs kicking, face going red.  “But now that you’re here, let’s all sit down and have a chat.”

I know… I think that Lachy won’t do anything permanent before we sort this out, but even my blood goes cold at the chill in his voice.

Chantalle and her friend… Flores, that’s her name… stumble forward, shooting nervous glances over their shoulders at Lachy, and the man still trapped in the crook of his arm, and at the man out cold on the floor.

“Is he… is he okay?”  There’s real panic spilling from Chantalle, and Lachy nudges the body of the man on the floor with his boot. 

“Well now.  He’ll have a headache, that’s for sure.  But he will wake up, if that’s what you're asking.”  It’s astonishing how relaxed Lachlainn’s voice is, a stark contrast to the tension in the room, and I realize that perhaps I miscalculated.  Perhaps where Jonah or Walker or I might hesitate, bound by years of bureaucratic rules and training… perhaps Lachy has no such compulsion to stay within the confines of the law.  He certainly doesn’t seem at all bothered by the gurgling sounds spilling out from the writhing man’s throat.

“Can you… would you mind letting go of Marco please?”  She’s hesitant but trying to stay calm.

Lachy pauses and sighs.  “Are you going to behave?” he asks the struggling man, and the idiot growls out some kind of obscenity.  “Okay.  Your choice!”  Lachy is almost… cheerful, and I can see his bicep flex, just slightly.  Four seconds later Marco’s eyes roll back in his head, and it’s goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.  “Wrong decision.  Maybe you’ll feel better after a little nap.”  He’s laughing, but it’s a dark laugh, one I haven’t heard from the large man, and more worrying is the way Walker edges toward him, laying a single, restraining hand on our gentle giant.  Make a note to figure that out later, I say to myself.

“Lach?”  Walker is cautious, but Lachlainn ignores him and lets the limp man fall unceremoniously to the floor, then surveys the room in front of him. 

Nodding to himself in apparent satisfaction, he turns to the wide-eyed women.  “Ladies?”  He motions toward the couch, and they move to it quickly.  “Now then.  Would one of you care to explain why you felt the need to break into my home via rather excessive methods?”  

Flores flushes a deep pink.  “Ah.  That was my mistake, I guess.  I’m just used to moving Chantalle in and out of places unseen.  Some of her… clients… prefer anonymity.  And we don’t like being tracked.  When we were leaving the city, we noticed a car kind of trailing our movements – we couldn’t be sure, but better safe than sorry.  Right?  So I erased us on the ferry manifest and their cameras, and then, just… when I saw your setup, thought… why not?”  She’s a little nervous and a little rebellious all at the same time.

“Why not, hmmm?  I hope you managed the other ones better than you did mine.  Your approach lacked… finesse.”  Flores looks oddly insulted and half-splutters a nonsensical reply, but swallows its sound, pulling back from whatever she sees in Lachy’s face.  Moving forward, I stand beside him, though I’m not sure if I should support him or caution him.  He glances up at me with an inscrutable expression, murmurs, “well, it did,” and then grins, such an unexpected response that I can’t help but mirror it.  I have no idea why two choked-out men and petrified women are funny, but… well, hell.  His amusement is contagious.

“Alright, Chantalle.  Can you walk us through the clusterfuck the last five minutes became?”  Walker is holstering his gun at his hip and walks over to sit opposite her on the “L” shaped portion of the couch.

She sighs, already putting her “wide-eyed college girl” mask back in place, which makes my finger tremble on the trigger of my weapon.  I don’t like the shifting personalities – it feels like she’s not taking this seriously.  And she may have been shaken, but she’s evidently tougher than she looks, because she’s playing a game instead of explaining herself.  “Jonah sent word to Flores that you guys needed to speak with me.”  Jonah nods in agreement, and Chantalle blinks at him through glistening eyes.  “I came as soon as I could…”  Her voice wavers, expression pleading.  Walker sighs and taps the table in front of him to get her attention.  “Hey,” he snaps.  “Cut the shit.  Focus.”

Surprisingly, she looks abashed and shrugs uncomfortably.  “Sorry,” she replies, all traces of the giggly co-ed gone.  “Force of habit.  It’s my go-to when I’m uncomfortable.”  Looking around at the room, she catches my eyes and pauses.  “I honestly am sorry for seeming uncaring, but I won’t apologize for my personas.  I use the weapons I have to protect myself.  It’s no different than you pointing that thing at me.”  Rolling her neck, she shoots a glance at the now-groaning men who are slowly coming to life behind me, before continuing.  “Anyway Terry over there had filled me in on Jonah’s nighttime escapades.”

“That’s where I know him,” Jonah bursts out.  “I couldn't place him!” 

Chantalle nods.  “We have… let’s just call them a variety of interests.  My escort services are a small part of an ever-expanding pie.  You can’t put too much into one enterprise, because when it crashes, you’ll lose everything.  So Terry runs our legal street-fighting ring.”  Heavy emphasis is put on the word.  “When he started seeing Jonah there, he let me know.  We assumed, based on his attitude and the way he was searching for oblivion, that he and Kai had broken up.  Then he started asking Flores for certain information, and we thought, maybe Kai had fallen for Tennireef’s charms?  I mean, to be honest we found that really doubtful, but stranger things have happened, I suppose.  The things he was looking for – schedule, credit-card statements… it felt like he was kind of stalking the new boyfriend.”

Terry, who has gotten unsteadily to his feet, weaves over to stand behind Chantalle and Flores, eyes still slightly unfocused.  I don’t know if he’s embarrassed or just out of it, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut.  The same can’t be said for the other man, who has pulled himself up and is now leaning against the wall.

“Yeah.  But then we found out that you fuckers had lost Kai.  You fucking lost her!”  His voice is biting and angry, but vicious sadness is hidden beneath.  “I told you she needed a real man guarding her.  One who wouldn’t take his eyes off her.”  

I don’t have time to move to intercept Walker, who has already launched himself halfway across the room, murder clear in his eyes.

“Walker!”  Lachy barks out his name, sharp and sudden like he’s calling for shots on a firing range.  Walker stops, his entire body shaking, breathing heavily, eyes wild.  Lachy gets to his feet and places a hand on Walker’s chest.  “Go sit,” he cautions quietly, and God knows why, but Walker listens to him and moves stiffly back to the arm of the couch.  Lachy turns like Death ascending to stand in front of Marco.  “You shouldn’t speak without thinking.”  The warning is heavy and clear, and Marco stiffens despite himself.  Bending his head, Lachy lowers his own until he is looking directly in Marco’s eyes and says, “I think you owe my brother an apology for talking about things you don’t understand.  And I’ll tell you, for free, that the only reason you’re still breathing is because you clearly spoke out of concern for Kai.  And that buys you enough oxygen for the next five minutes.  No more.”

There is silence, and then Marco grinds out from between clenched teeth, “Sorry.”

It’s not enough, but it has to be, for now at least.  The air is vibrating with anger and accusations, and things need to calm down for us to move forward.

I try to redirect.  “So.  Did you see a news broadcast or something about Kai missing?  What brought about the sudden change?”  

“Funny you should say that,” Chantalle replies.  “We actually had to do quite a bit of research for any answers.”  Flores nods quietly beside Chantalle.  “Did you know all those news stories, all the shows Cole was on, were only broadcast in Britain?  Sky News, ITV, BBC… all local.  None international.  Curiously enough, at the same time the British press was covering the story, here in the States everything was focused on the upcoming presidential election in November.  One of the main candidates up for the nod was caught in a tremendously compromising position, photos and all, and that took up the headlines for a couple of weeks.  Salacious pictures, suspected grooming… you name it, it all came out.  Right at the same time.  Very fortuitous.  Nothing about the girls.”

“It had to have been on the web at least?  On the BBC website?”  Walker sounds astounded.

“Well, again.  Funny you should mention that.  In the US, if you try to go to bbc.co.uk you’re automatically redirected to bbc.com.  Different headlines.  Different breaking news.  And no matter how many times you try to access bbc.co.uk, you’re always redirected.”

“Unless you have some deeper computer knowledge and can wiggle around firewalls…” Flores mutters, and Chantalle smiles at her.

“Exactly.  I mean, once we started digging, we found some buried pieces about two of Cole’s friends who had gone missing.  But you had to know what you were looking for.  And it didn’t help that Kai has no online presence at all, and Maela has very little.  Neither has Facebook or Instagram.  No Twitter.  No Tiktok.”

“Kai doesn’t like that stuff.  She’s as private as possible…” Jonah mutters.  “Cole was on everything though.  We saw her.  Watched all her interviews.”  Doubt is clear in his tone, and Chantalle nods at him.

“She was.  But how often did she say their names rather than referring to them as “her friends”?  Did you just hear her say their names because you already knew who they were?  And, to be honest, after the first couple of broadcasts, she stopped really referencing them altogether.  Now here comes the tricky part.  The shows she was on were all taken down from the internet services like YouTube because of streaming rights violations.  So you have to turn to something like Reddit to get around that.  And even Reddit boards get shut down if there are too many violations reported.  But really, at the end of the day, who cared enough about the story to go through that much effort?  The next big thing had already hit – who remembers if two girls wander off in the middle of the night somewhere?  So we had no idea what was going on, for the longest time.”

“American citizens going missing is big news,” Jonah frowns.  “You can’t just get around that.”

I sigh and rub a hand over my eyes, which suddenly feel like needles are being shoved into them.  “It’s not really,” I say reluctantly.  His eyes flip to me, almost accusingly, and I shake my head.  “Stupid.  Stupid that I missed that.  We saw her transition from concerned friend to Gaia mouthpiece, of course,” this directed at Chantalle, before looking back to Jonah, “but it’s frequency bias.  Baader-Meinhof phenomenon.  We see them everywhere because we’re looking for them more.”  Christ.  How did I not see this?  “We’ve been dealing with inside information and reports; we haven’t had time to watch coverage.  Even if we had been… well.  Between 5.7 and 9 million Americans expatriate themselves.  The US Government doesn’t even have a good count on it.  Add to that number – last year 49 million Americans traveled overseas.  So… ballpark 56 million Americans abroad worldwide over the course of the year.  75 were killed – not just missing, but murdered – some brutally.  Do you know a single one of their names?  Did you hear any stories about them on the news?”

Jonah looks stricken.  “Maybe… maybe one?  Something in Cancun, I think?”

I tilt my head, sympathy clear on my face, but I need him to understand.  “Man or woman?  Name?  From where?  With family?  Was there a reward offered?  What time of year?”

“I… I don’t know…”  His voice breaks a little as he hears the implication in my words.  

Chantalle shoots him a compassionate glance and continues quietly.  “It was only after the last time Jonah was there that Terry started to get worried.”

Terry inclines his head.  “Something was different the last few fights, Sunshine, and I started wondering if maybe I had things wrong.  You didn’t seem like a man who was facing a temporary problem.  You seemed like a man who was looking for a permanent solution.”

Chantalle takes over the conversation again.  “Which got us to thinking.  I knew Kai had left in December.  And that she was doing whatever it is you guys do, which meant she would be busy for a bit.  But when I didn’t hear from her… well.  And Marco started getting anxious, because he hadn’t seen her around for a while.  So.  We redirected some of our resources towards figuring out what happened.  And that’s when we realized that Kai–”  She stops suddenly, clearing her throat, then continues, words wavering, “that Kai was missing.”

“And why would that matter to you?” Lachy asks, though not unkindly.  

Chantalle presses her lips together and inhales deeply before replying.  “I don’t have many friends, can’t trust many people,” she says, voice low.  “People in my world tend to be less give and more take.  And for some reason, the first time I met her, she wanted to help me.  Not to get anything in return.  Just… just because.”  There’s a pause, and she lifts a single shoulder, face carefully blank.  “She said maybe we could go out for coffee sometime.  And I… thought that would be nice.  To have a friend like that.”  Flores is frowning on the couch beside Chantalle, her expression mirrored on Terry’s face, and Chantalle sighs.  “Not you two,” she whispers.  “I mean, like… someone to paint my nails with.”  The pixie woman recoils in seeming horror, and Terry raises a brow doubtfully.  “That’s what I mean.”  Chantalle rolls her eyes in exasperation, then looks hesitantly towards Lachy.  “Pretty stupid, hunh?  Kai probably doesn’t even paint her nails.”

Lachy just smiles gently at her.  “No,” he says cryptically, “but Gemma does.  You guys must be thirsty.  Let me get you something to drink.”  He stands and takes a step in the direction of the kitchen, before pausing and holding out a silent hand to Terry, who wavers, then takes it in his own.  The two shake once, firmly, without saying anything, and then Lachy continues into the kitchen.

The Roller Coaster

Jonah

By the time Lachy returns with the drinks and a tray of food, everyone is sitting uneasily in silence.  He places everything on the low coffee table, and I can’t help but roll my eyes in kind of quiet affection.  It’s his first instinct in any situation – something’s wrong?  Feed the person.  Someone’s sad?  Feed the person.  I can see why Kai fell so hard for someone like him – and it’s clear as day how much she loves him.  He notices things about people, notices the small waves in their oceans, notices the changes of their currents.  And for someone who hides herself all the time, I can’t imagine what it felt like to have a person see you.  Really see you.   

We all kind of grab plates and settle in before Lachy asks gently, “So.  Why didn’t you just knock?”

Marco frowns and looks down at his hands.  “That was me.  I wanted to get the girls inside as quickly as possible.”  He tightens his fingers into fists, flexing and unflexing.  “I didn’t like how we left the city.  It just felt… off.  Like someone was tracking us.  And that feeling hasn’t gone away.  So I just wanted them inside with the door shut.”  He looks up reluctantly at Lachy.  “I don’t like the woods.  They creep me out.  Maybe I just let it get to me.”

Lachy frowns and types something into his phone.  Outside, the immediate perimeter fence flares into sudden light – not bright enough to illuminate the entire area, just a soft enough glow to chase away the darker shadows.  “I usually listen to my gut instinct,” he says, narrowing his eyes as he scans the front yard through the window.  “It’s easier to deal with the results of being over-cautious than being under-cautious.  At least everything is re-armed now.”

Flores clears her throat.  “Not to, uh, not to cause problems here.  But I shut down your system completely.  I know I did.”  She tries, and fails, to look modest.  “I’m pretty fucking good, so I don’t think I missed anything.  If you give me a second, I’ll make sure you’re back online.”

He grins at her.  The contrast between the two is startling.  She’s tiny, half her head shaved, half braids and tumbling, black curls, tattoos covering every spare inch.  He’s a massive bear of a man who looks like he was born from a mountain, who probably reads by candlelight at night.  “People always underestimate me,” he tells her, amusement clear.  “They look at the driveway, at the surroundings, the distance from anything else.  The firewood, the way I dress.  If you did any research, you’d probably think, ‘This guy’s a carpenter.  How much tech could he understand?’  And that?  It’s a mistake.”

She groans.  “You have a backup system if the first is tripped?  But I shut down your entire network!”  He shrugs, and her eyes widen.  “Shit.  Shiiiiiit.  I shut down one of your networks.  God damn it.”  He shrugs again, a playful smile on his face, and directs his attention to Chantalle, who straightens in her seat.

“We don’t have much time,” she begins apologetically, “so… if you want to tell me what you need from me?”

Walker nods and grabs his computer, cueing up the video of Tennireef and the French tutor.  

“I know that set-up,” Flores snarks under her breath, and I grin at her.  “That’s what you needed it for?”  I mime zipping my lips and throwing away the key, and she rolls her eyes in return.  I actually really like Flores.  She’s not bad once you get past her walls.  I actually think she and Kai would get on well.  Maybe once Kai’s home… my heart skips painfully.  Once Kai’s home.

Walker motions to the screen, where the video has started playing.  “Do you know this woman?  Any chance she’s one of yours?”

Chantalle watches through narrowed eyes and nods.  “I do, actually.  How in the world did you know, though.”  Deo pauses the video and points to the flash of red on the screen, and Chantalle exhales sharply.  “Well.  That’s an unexpected identifier.”  Shooting a glance at Flores, she lifts a brow, and Flores inclines her head in silent understanding.  I don’t think the escorts will be wearing only red-bottoms for much longer, judging by their knowing communication.  “Well.”  She’s cautious now.  “You need my help?”

“We just need to talk to her, if we can.  Is there any way we can just ask her about him?  About their interactions?”

She taps a manicured nail against her lips.  “That’s it?”

I shake my head.  “No, no it’s not.”  The others look up in surprise, and I frown.  “It isn’t.  Let’s be realistic about what we need.  Asking her questions about their time together may yield some small result.  But what we need, really need, is access to that book he carries.”

Deo closes his eyes and exhales sharply, as though he’s disappointed, but I have a feeling he’s more upset with himself than with me.  

“The fucking book.”  Walker whistles under his breath.

Chantalle’s already shaking her head, looking unbearably sad.  “That I can’t do,” she says and holds up a hand to stall Walker’s protests.  “I can’t.  Letting you talk to her is one thing – I mean, it breaks literally every one of my rules, but I’ll do it, of course.  But I can’t make her go back.  Any of my girls.  It’s not safe.  I’m sorry.”  She glances at Marco, who sits down heavily beside her.  “I won’t send any of my escorts back to him.  We’ve had trouble with him in the past, due to his… particular… brand of pleasure.  This was a one-off.”

Closing her eyes for a second, she takes a breath as though debating with herself, then exhales and focuses on us.  “Tennireef used to come to us quite often.  We have a certain reputation with politicians for being discreet and… accommodating, shall we say?  To understand what I mean, you have to know some of the structure of my business.”  Flores and Terry make twin sounds of protest but quiet when Chantalle holds up a hand.  “I have levels, you see.  There are escorts and there are escorts.  While all of our girls are extraordinary, there are some who escort men, or women, to smaller affairs, or business functions, or similar engagements.  We have an entire book of women who only handle top-tier clients and events.  International trips, high-level dinners… we’ve had multiple women at White House state dinners on the same night, without anyone knowing.  Oscar parties… the Emmys.  We provide a very elite service that is known about by very, very few people, relatively.  The 1% knows quality and isn’t afraid to pay for it.  There are many men, and women, who want the comfort of a loving woman, intelligent conversation, warmth, and engagement, without the downside.”

“Emotions?” Walker asks wryly, and Chantalle shakes her head.

“Negative emotions.  They’re fine with surface-level happiness, with glittery, shiny things, because they are used to the best of the best, and in their minds, nothing good has scuff marks or scrapes or dents.  If you purchase a Lamborghini, you want it in perfect condition.  All the time.  Tennireef came to us early in his career.  He outlined his needs, very clearly actually.  With unexpected confidence, as though he knew that, no matter what he said, he’d never burn for it.  His interests were in consensual non-consent and rape play.  Similar, but different sexual fantasies.  Not uncommon, and we have women who specialize in those relationships.  We don’t judge what our clients ask for as long as it’s legal and safe, in relative terms obviously...  It wasn’t a problem at first.  Our guidelines were obeyed.  But he’s a guy who gets off on power domination and not in a healthy way.  He started pushing, first just a little, and we gave him warnings.  Then a little more, and then he started bringing ‘friends’ and… well.  We had to cut him off completely.”  She sighs.  “At the start of the year, he came back to us, very repentant.  He’d seen a therapist, he said.  He’d worked through his issues.  He had the same requirements but would approach them in a safe and responsible way.  And he offered double.  Double.”

“What did you do?” Hideo asks.

“I don’t keep offers from my women unless there is real or certain danger.  He had hard evidence – reports detailing his time in therapy and a brief, week-long retreat at a very discreet rehab facility.  Which we require from anyone who has been kicked out of our books before giving them a second chance.  Most are very willing to comply with our… requests… because we provide a very unique service.”

Deo makes a note on the sheet in front of him.  “Any idea of the therapist’s name?  Or the name of the rehab center?”

She shakes her head.  “Not off the top of my head.  We have it in our files, but those are kept on a computer drive back at the bar.  It purposefully doesn’t have internet access.  We’d have to look it up when we get back.  The rehab facility was somewhere fancy… I can’t remember.  Overseas, I know that.  Anywhere in America he couldn’t have hidden a stint in rehab for ‘sex addiction’.  So he ‘went on vacation’ or something, but was really at some high-end health center.  Everything seemed to be above board.  I thought about it for a while – just kind of tabled it, but the money offered was so good I finally put the deal before my ladies who specialize in that particular fantasy.  I clearly outlined my reservations – I never ask a woman to participate in anything she’s not comfortable doing, or that she doesn’t enjoy.  We had three who were available, and he chose the one in this video.  This meeting,” she points to the computer screen, “was the first and the last.  While he didn’t completely violate every boundary, it took enough… persuasion… to keep him in line, that he’s burned all his bridges with us.  And he knows it.  So you can talk to her, and I’m happy to set that up, but no.  I won’t send anyone back.  Marco was firm enough in their last interaction that Tennireef would suspect something anyway.”

I can feel the despair crash over the rest of the guys.  “Okay,” Deo says, trying to maintain his composure.  “Okay.  It’s not a total loss.  We can talk to her, see if she noticed anything.  It’s not a dead end.  Just a bump in the road.”  I make a mental note – Deo’s strengths are many, but demonstrating any level of convincing optimism is not one of them.

“Thanks for doing what you’re able to, at least, Chantalle,” I offer.  I can tell how upset she is.  “We know you’d help more if you could.  And we appreciate it.”

“I really would,” she replies, brow furrowed.  “I have to assume you’re coming to me, and you’re responding like this, because you… you’re having trouble finding her?  I hoped maybe… I don’t know.  But do you not have any ideas?”

We all exchange grim looks.  “Nothing we can act on openly at the moment,” Walker grinds out.  “We’re locked down right now.  And we’re losing time.”

“I wish there was something I could do,” she says, wringing her hands.  “Is the book always in his office?  Can’t you just… I don’t know… grab it the same way you were able to place the camera?”

“It’s not,” I say gently.  “Apparently, it’s always on him.  It’s not big – just wallet sized.  To be honest, we have no idea what’s in it.  But we’ve never seen him without it, not since we first noticed it, and we’re just hoping it holds some kind of lead.  It’s not even a guarantee.  He’d have to be stupid enough to write down something meaningful.  Which is a long shot.  Then again,” my mouth twists in a bitter grin, “he clearly wrote down your information in it, so that’s something.”

She looks up at Terry, head cocked thoughtfully, and he shuts her down immediately.  “Wouldn’t work,” he replies shortly.

“What wouldn’t?” Walker growls.  He doesn’t like being confused, doesn’t like feeling left out of all these silent conversations between their little group.  I have to say, I completely agree.

“She’s thinking what if she tries,” Flores replies darkly, “and for once – I can’t fucking believe I’m saying this – I’m with Terrance.  Chanty, you can’t.”

“I mean… wouldn’t he recognize you anyway?” I ask, completely perplexed.

“Oh no.  No.  I never meet with clients face-to-face, unless they’re my own.  And I’m… well, I was… very specific regarding my choices.  I have front of the house to deal with interviewing prospective suitors.  I watch from the back and oversee.  No, Tennireef and I have never met.  So I could try, if we knew how.”

There’s a long, heavy pause, and a thought enters my head.  I start speaking slowly, trying to work through the details.  “Even if you approached him outside of your office… he’d never go for it.  He doesn’t date publicly and shuts down people all the time.  He wouldn’t bite for someone who chased him.  Too easy.  Our problem is getting you close enough to him that he notices you but keeping you out of reach.  Like Veruca Salt and the golden goose.”  

They all stare at me with confused expressions, then transfer those same looks to Hideo, who quips back, “Wonka?  ‘Ow much do ya’ want for the golden goose?”

My head jerks around in surprise, and he grins at me.  “What?  You gave me the list… ‘movies and shows Kai loves’.  ‘Required viewing’, I believe you called it.”

“I… I know.  I just didn’t realize you were actually watching them.”

He shrugs.  “I’m getting caught up.  I’m tired of you two saying things like ‘bow to the queen of slime, the queen of filth…’ and then laughing, and I have no idea what’s happening.  So.  Research.”

“Okay, guys?”  Walker’s voice is sharp when he interrupts.  “First?  What the hell, Shotridge?  If you have shit like that you share it with the family.  Put it in the binder in the kitchen.”  I stare at him blankly, and he grits his teeth.  “The Favorites binder?  With all the colored tabs?  Food, sweets, books… Jesus fucking Christ.  Put.  It.  In.  The.  Binder.”  I nod stupidly.  “Second, focus.  Tennireef.”

“Right!  Right.  What do we know about him?  He likes being the center of attention.  He craves power.  He’s immaculate in public and difficult to pin down.  But he does slip.  What we need to figure out is, what would make him slip?  It would need to be subtle.  Little hints of things to tempt him.  How can we make those trail markers lead to you?  And even if we get you to the same event, without being obvious, you’d have to somehow be in the same social circle, the same table or whatever.  So there’s a lot to consider.”  

Marco, sitting silently next to Chantalle, stares up at the ceiling for a moment, before reaching out to take her hand.  Without looking at her, he takes a deep breath.  I see both Flores and Terry tense up, exchanging loaded glances.  “How important is this to you, Chantalle?”  The question is hesitant.  

“Very,” she answers immediately, and then sighs.  “Mostly for Kai, but also – he’s not a good man.  And I get it; we deal with not-good people all the time.  But there are levels.  And I don’t want him in any position where he has power over us, for any reason.  We’ve turned him down twice now, and a man like that doesn’t forget slights against him.  So I’d love to say it’s all altruism and I’m just a good person.  But.  He’s a threat to my plans.”

Marco nods, then offers, “What about… and I’m not saying you should do this, but if it’s that important to you… what about Cooper?”  The two behind her start arguing immediately, but a glimmer of possibility lights in Chantalle’s eyes.  

“Cooper?”  Deo looks intrigued.  “Cooper Firth?”  

“That’s not a good idea, Chanty,” Flores warns, worry clear in her voice, but Chantalle doesn’t hear her.

“He can get in anywhere.  He’s on a totally different level than Tennireef – old money, power, connections – it would have to be a long game.  I’d have to be seen with him in public a few times to set the trap…”  She’s thoughtful, considering.

Terry growls, clearly pissed off.  “Great fucking job, Marco.  Really.  You fucking…”

Marco doesn’t move, just sits staring at the ceiling, hand still intertwined with Chantalle’s.  He looks like he’s just found out he has to put his favorite dog to sleep, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t blame him, Terry,” Chantalle replies quietly.  “Let’s figure this out.  If Tennireef sees me enough places with Coop, if it’s a trail of breadcrumbs leading him toward a slice of society where he hasn’t been fully accepted yet… do you think?  Would it be enough?  The back rooms at those places get very dark, very quickly.  I could easily get a hold of the book if he’s invited back with Coop…”

“What’s wrong with Cooper?” Lachy asks concernedly.  

The foursome just exchange loaded glances.  “Nothing really,” Chantalle replies slowly.  “They just don’t all always get along–”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Chanty–” Flores snaps out at the same time Terry growls, “You’ve got to be kidding, Tally–” but they’re both interrupted by a little alarm on Flores’ computer. 

Chantalle looks almost relieved.  “Out of time, crew.  We need to pack it up.  We have to be on the next ferry.”  

Flores grits her teeth, offering, “It’s as long as I could blank their security system.  There’s no room to play around.  We need to take off.”

They stand as one, moving to the door in a cohesive group – Chantalle in the center, Marco and Terry up front, Flores protecting her from the rear.  They pause as they’re about to leave, as Chantalle turns to face us.  “I’ll see what I can do.  It’s not going to be quick – I mean, I’ll go as fast as I can without risking anything – but it won’t be tomorrow or the next day.  As soon as I’m able, I’ll let you know if there’s a way ahead with this.  I will do my best.  I promise.”

And then they’re gone as quickly as they came.  No good-byes, no assurances other than her parting words.  The room is quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts.  There’s not enough space for hope, but despair hasn’t crept in either, which should mean something, I guess.  We’re just caught in a baited breath, always waiting for the next inhale or exhale.  It constantly feels like something is about to happen, something that will change everything forever, but the clock on the wall keeps ticking without interruption.  A cold chill runs down my back as I stare at the second hand moving, little trembling flicks of time marked by a shaky line, and I wonder.  When the axe drops, whose neck will be on the chopping block?

Kitchen Duty

Maela

I slump against the wall for a moment, feeling woozy, then straighten as I make my way into the kitchen.  I’m on dishwashing duty tonight, because I can’t be trusted with knives.  Last time I did prep, I was so tired I sliced my finger open when chopping the leeks, and as I stood there, watching the blood bead up, I started to cry, because all I could think of was butchering a pumpkin for a lost Thanksgiving dinner, and then I started to laugh when I remembered the size of the bandage Emlyn put on my finger.  So there I was, laughing and crying, and I must have looked completely mental, but I’m not.  I promise I’m not.  I’m improving, I really am, and at least I can still be useful, at least I can still contribute.  Dr. Beaufort says that the treatment is promising, a new hope for patients suffering from psychosis.  Every cloud and all.  My loss is another’s gain.

“Alright, Maela, come and put on a pair of gloves,” the cook calls.  She’s an older woman, a grey-haired Mrs. Claus, stout and motherly, and she tuts when she sees my hands.  “You look like you’ve been washing in bleach!  Cleanliness is all very well, Maela, but you can take it too far.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur.  I snap on the gloves and start to wash the glasses.  I need to be more careful.  The doctors won’t release me if they think I can’t function normally.  I need to demonstrate that I can look after myself.

“So, Maela, looking forward to Funders’ Day?”

Funders’ Day.  When all the bigwigs come to inspect how well their money’s being spent, look over the charity cases, like at animals at a zoo.  And here we see the brain-damaged, going about their morning routines.  Look at how well Martin picks up blocks!  And here is Maela; she can tie her own shoelaces!  Pats on backs all around.  I shrug and mumble.     

“Yes, it’s quite a lively event.  It has the feel of a village fête.  We set up a marquee in the garden, and there’s a buffet and drinks.  Matron gives a speech, and a few of the senior patients give tours.  We get local dignitaries, sometimes even overseas funders.  A number of Gaia managers also come, of course.  And family members, if they live close by.”

I concentrate hard on rubbing out a spot on the glass I’m holding.  My parents won’t be coming, that’s for sure.  Even if they wanted to see me, it’s a long way to go for a speech and some sandwiches.  Maybe Kailani and I can hide out in our room on the day.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the doctors wanted you to lead a group.  After all, you’re a senior patient and a very responsible one at that!”  She beams at me.

“Not really.  I mean, thank you, I try, but I’ve only been here for… um… since December?”  My voice trails up uncertainly.  I’ve lost track of time.  The days seem to blend one into the other, and since there are no computers, no mobile phones, no newspapers even – “a healing haven”, Dr. Beaufort says, free from the stresses of the outside world, “a safe place” – I can only guess at the date.      

“Well, they only allow long-term residents to help run Mt. Ida; there’s no point training someone who’s not going to be around for very long, is there?  And then only those patients who have settled in well, who can be trusted.  You were once a lecturer, weren’t you?  That’s probably why Ms. Garner thought you’d like looking after the library.  You’d be perfect as a guide.  And this is such an interesting house!  I’m sure you’ll enjoy learning about it.” 

I’m trembling, my ears having caught on “long-term resident”.  I’m not a long-term resident!  I’m getting better every day, and soon I’ll be cleared to leave.  “You must be mistaken,” I say carefully, “I’ll be going home in a few weeks.  I’m sure of it.”  Home, wherever that is.  London?  California?  Do I still have a fellowship?  What do I do if Maman still won’t speak to me?

Mrs. Riggins looks doubtful.  “If you say so, pet.”

I finish washing the dishes in a daze.  Long-term resident?  Me?  Surely not!  My stomach’s twisting with anxiety, little maggots wriggling about, white and fat, and I barely notice when Mrs. Riggins bids me good night.  I’m trusted now; I don’t need an orderly, and I set off down the hallway on my own.  I’m not really paying attention, head bowed, a waterfall in my ears, and I realize, after a minute or three, that I’ve gone the wrong way.  Mt. Ida is a rabbit warren, corridors leading here and there, dingy backways for the servants to pass unnoticed.  And all painted the same hospital white.

I look around me.  The hallway’s dimly lit, ending in a blind corner, and there are no windows.  Definitely a servant’s passage, I decide, probably how they scuttled the soup to the dining room.  I must be in the east wing.  I’m fairly familiar with the dormitories, the treatment rooms, the kitchen and refectory, but I’ve never been in this part of the building.  I creep along the corridor, wondering, and an orderly comes round the corner.  She frowns when she sees me.

“What are you doing here, wandering around?  This area is off limits to patients.”  She grabs my arm and starts to march me along, coldly impatient, so that I have to add a skip here and there to keep up.  “Have you been sleep-walking again?”

“No?”  I don’t think I’ve ever sleep-walked in my life, have I?  I pause, distracted, then shake my head.  “Why is this area off limits?” 

The orderly gives an exaggerated sigh.  “These are the staff quarters.  We are entitled to some privacy.  You wouldn’t want to bring your job home with you, would you?” 

I shake my head.

“Believe it or not, we do like to socialize.  Some of the others are having an impromptu drinks party, but I’m on call in five minutes.”

By now we’ve reached the hallway where I should have turned left instead of right.

“Come along, now.  I’ll be late.  Which room are you… 1c?”

She whisks me briskly down another corridor, muttering.  “Going to have to report you… really can’t be expected to be on call 24/7… not fair… don’t pay me enough…  Here we are!”  She opens the door, giving me a push, and I stumble in.  Looking around, my heart squeezes.  Is this really where I’m going to be living from now on?

◆◆◆

I can’t stop fretting about what Mrs. Riggins said, my mind worrying over the implications like a dog with a rawhide bone, turning it into a soggy mass that pastes itself to every thought.  She must have misunderstood.  I’ve been given duties because I’m improving, because I’m responsible, not to help me settle in.  I decide to test the waters and raise my hand when Ms. Garner asks if anyone would like to begin.

She nods approvingly at me.  “Yes, Maela, what would you like to share today?”

“I was just thinking how much I’m going to miss everyone when I leave.  You’ve all been so supportive.  I just hope I can find a similar group.  When I go home.”  I look around the circle.  Cara’s chewing her lip; Kailani’s face is troubled; Martin’s smiling blankly.  Ms. Garner’s narrowed her eyes, and my hands start to tremble, but I plow on, burying them in my lap, left thumb pressed into right palm.  “Yes, I don’t think I would have made such a good recovery without all of you, and I’m grateful.  ‘A friend in need is a friend indeed.’  I hope I’ve been as helpful.”  I realize that I’m prattling and fall silent.

“Well, Maela, thank you for sharing.  I’m sure you’ve been an inspiration, especially to our other long-term residents.  The way you’ve adapted!  Life doesn’t always turn out the way we plan, but we must always look for the good in every situation, mustn’t we.”  Cara hums, and Kailani rolls her eyes, which brings an unexpected quiver to my lips.  Fortunately, Ms. Garner doesn’t notice.  “So, now that Maela’s started us off, who would like to share next?  Martin?”  He bobs his tousled head and begins to speak.

I don’t pay attention for the rest of the session, just go through the motions, putting on my “listening” face, holding hands, chanting this week’s affirmation.  My mind’s stuck on “other long-term residents”.  That doesn’t bode well, not well at all.

“Alright everyone, time for lunch.  Well done.  And remember: ‘you have to look through the rain to see the rainbow.’  One moment, Maela.  I’d like a quick word.  And you too, Kailani.”

We glance at each other as the rest of the group files out, then back at Ms. Garner.  She peers at me curiously through red-rimmed glasses.  “Now, Maela dear, wherever did you get the idea that you were leaving us?”

“Well, I just…  I think I’m doing so much better, you see… and,” I stammer.

“Ah.  And you think you’re qualified to make such a decision, do you?  Did you get a medical degree when I wasn’t looking?”

“Well, no, but–”

“And Kailani?  You’d abandon her, would you?”

Kailani’s head comes up.  “I’m fine,” she snaps.

Ms. Garner looks witheringly at her.  “You’re really not, dear.” 

I open my mouth, close it, then open it again.  “Ms. Garner, I just thought–”

She holds up a hand.  “Maela, I’m going to have to disabuse you.  You are nowhere near ready to go home.  We still don’t know what the long-term damage to you is, and you’re in the at-risk group for seizures.  Just imagine what would happen if you had one at work, or alone at home, or, God forbid, while you were driving…  You could kill someone, Maela!  Or be killed yourself.  At the very least, you’d upset innocent bystanders, who wouldn’t know how to help, what to do.  We cannot allow you to put yourself or others at risk.  And, even if you were capable of looking after yourself, you are now part of a clinical trial.  We need to keep an eye on you, monitor how you’re reacting.”

I thin my lips mutinously.

Ms. Garner turns to Kailani.  “Have you been putting ideas into Maela’s head again?”  

Kailani opens her mouth to reply, but I beat her to it: “Of course not!  I just thought–”

“Well, don’t!” Ms. Garner chides me.  “Kailani dear, I do hope you are being a good friend to Maela.  She needs your support, now more than ever.  I hope you are being a sympathetic ear.  And I hope you will always bear her best interests in mind.  Remember, girls, we are here to help.  If anything is troubling you, anything at all, you mustn’t hesitate to speak to one of the staff.  There’s no shame in asking for help: ‘look through the rain to see the rainbow.’  All the pretty colors: red and orange, yellow and green, blue and indigo.  And violet too,” she enthuses.  “Sing a rainbow, like a little bird, flying in fluffy, white clouds and a soft, refreshing rain.”

I glower at her.  There’s no need to speak in code: I’m brain-damaged, not stupid.  I know exactly what she means; Kailani’s told me how the medicines make her feel, and I’ve witnessed the results first-hand.  Kailani, though, looks conflicted.  “Fluffy, white clouds?” she asks, a slight tremor in her voice.

“Oh, yes, dear,” Ms. Garner coos.  “Now, off you go to lunch.  I’ll escort you.”

I scowl at Kailani as we leave the room.  Sell-out!

Ms. Garner smiles like the cat that’s got the cream.   

◆◆◆

I’m still furious with Kailani the next evening, with Kailani, with Enid Garner, with Iara Beaufort, and with every God-damned nurse in her God-damned vintage cap and sensible shoes.  Not ready to go home?  Not ready?  I’ve been so fucking good I could choke on it.  And right now, I couldn’t give two fuckity fucks about the clinical trial, because why, really, should I put myself out to help traitorous, backstabbing cows like Kailani?  Clearly, a happy pill matters more than our fledgling friendship.  If I had the energy, I’d march over to the desk and smack her.  Journal that, Judas!

I conveniently push aside thoughts of my own transgressions to focus on Kailani’s betrayal.  I’d shared secrets with her, damnit!  Late, late at night, when we both couldn’t sleep.  Sometimes I’d get so lonely, so lost and confused, that I couldn’t bring myself to care that someone else was listening, monitoring us like lab animals.  Friendships can’t be forged in silence.  Mostly, we talked about life at Mt. Ida.  But every now and then, we’d whisper of childhood dreams, bright and innocent.  Never of the between-time, and rarely of the future, but sometimes, I told Kailani what I somehow couldn’t tell the doctors: how scared I was that I’d never recover, how stupid I felt, how guilty.  And she seemed to understand.  

“I can feel you staring at me,” she says suddenly.

“Bully for you,” I snark.  All of my frustrations have come to a head, and I might as well take them out on Kailani.  Better her than one of the staff.

“Well, take your lousy attitude elsewhere.  I’m not in the mood for your self-pitying crap tonight.  I don’t feel good.  The wheels are coming off the bus,” she says cryptically, but with a bite.  

Ooh, she’s pissed too.  Blue pill?  Red pill?  I take a moment to consider the paperback I’m holding, then hurl it at her; I’m aiming at the space between her bony, sticky-outy shoulder blades, not her head – I’m not a monster – but I miss both, and the book bounces off her chair.  

She jumps up and whirls around.  “You’re going to regret that,” she hisses, fists clenched.

“Bring it on, looney-tunes,” I snipe.  I have had it up to here with being good.  I jump off the bed and into a crouch.  I’m feeling so cocky, I even give a “come-hither” gesture with my hand.

Her eyes narrow.  “Deo told me I shouldn’t pick on people smaller than myself, especially short-asses with over-inflated opinions of themselves.”

“You and your imaginary friends,” I scoff, which does the trick nicely, because the next thing I know, she’s rushed me, and then we’re grappling and spitting and shouting.  I’ve forgotten all of Seef's training and am trying to bitch-slap her, and she’s blocking me, then all of a sudden she’s got me in a hold.

“Say ‘I’m sorry’,” she grunts.

“You’re sorry.  Apology not accepted.”

She tightens her grip, and I’m just about to attempt to stomp on her foot, when I still.  “Why hasn’t someone come?” I murmur, the low drone of a bee on a summer’s day.  But she hears me and glances up at the corner.  The light’s flashing, the mechanism’s humming, but no one has come.  Kailani looks down at me, frowning.

I need proof and head-butt Kailani in the stomach.  She recoils, gasping, and I follow up with my best attempt at a head-lock.  Biting my lip, I flick my eyes to the corner.

The light’s gone out.

Kailani wriggles out of my hold and quickly pins me to the floor, but I’m smiling.  

“Do you like cats?”

Butter Cake

Seef

She was such a funny little thing, all big eyes and bravado and a wide, kissable mouth.  I only tasted her the once, caught her off guard, took my chance to breathe in the scent of white wine and vanilla beans.  She always smelled good enough to eat, like the butter cake my ouma used to make, sweet almonds mixed with sunshine, and that night I wanted to gorge.  But there was a hint of spice there too, something to savor, so I only brushed her lips with mine, just to grab her attention, set her to wondering if maybe I wasn’t a complete asshole.  I knew how badly I’d behaved.  How badly I’d misjudged her.  No, that’s not entirely true.  I knew exactly who she would be to me, the moment I laid eyes on her, all five-foot nothing and glory be to God for dappled things, and I didn’t want any part of it.  I’d been down that road before; it ended trapped in a burning building with body parts raining around me, every night at 3am, and the salted coup de grace of betrayal.  No way I even wanted to check the travel conditions.  And since I couldn’t run away myself, had to carry out the assignment, I thought to make her run, or at least back the hell away.  But here’s the thing about mice, especially little russet ones who look in the mirror and see a lion staring back: they’re bold and inquisitive and intelligent, and they’re too damn curious for their own damn good.  And they have a habit of finding their way through the smallest of cracks.  And she crept about, her cute-as-a-button nose twitching whenever I annoyed her, which was pretty often, but damn if it wasn’t fun.  And she wiggled around me in training, hopping about, determined to keep up, show me who was really the boss, squeaking furiously whenever I picked her up and held her by the tail.  And she scampered all the way to my heart.  I didn’t even see her coming.  One moment I was snapping at her, annoyed that she was making me feel again, the next she was sitting on top of my metaphorical chest, bright eyes staring at me, slight weight pinning me down.  I couldn’t have moved even if I’d wanted to.

I thought we’d have time.  I wanted to take things slowly, savor each and every exquisite minute.  I wanted to court her.  God, that makes me sound like one of those pompous men in those ghastly novels Maela loves.  The type who wears breeches and frock coats, whatever the fuck they are, with a country pile in one pocket and a London mansion in the other.  Mr. Darcy on steroids.  Come to think of it, a bit like Emlyn.  Bastard.  Smooth-talking, aristocratic, reasonably good-looking in a tall, dark, and chiseled sort of a way, if you like that sort of thing.  Jammy git.  Good man to have at your back, though.  But, yeah, I wanted to court her.  Bring her flowers and ask her out to dinner.  Write her poetry.  Romance her.  I should have known; life has taught me all too well that things can change forever in a heartbeat.

I run my fingers across my scalp.  Need to shave again.  I don’t have time to go to the barber.  There’s too much work to do achieving the square root of fuck all.  I fist my remaining hand, punching the desk in frustration, and the left one suddenly aches.  Guess it feels left out.  Phantom limb pain, the doctors call it.  Apparently, my brain’s misplaced the message from my spinal cord that my forearm had to be amputated.  Happened all the time in the first few months after the ambush, but I haven’t had any symptoms in a while.  I massage the stump, wincing.  I don’t like wearing a prosthetic – it’s a pain in the ass to get on – but maybe I should, just until my brain resets.  That or try mirror therapy again.  Not sure what it says about me that my brain is so easily tricked, but I’ll take feeling gullible over an itch you can’t scratch.  Right, back to work.

Sitrep: we’re up shit creek without a paddle.  There’s been no sign of the girls for two and a half months, not since the night they were taken.  I don’t understand how no one has talked.  Snatching the girls was one thing – we underestimated Kronos – but keeping them under wraps without a single sighting, a single rumor?  Cole can’t be personally involved day to day; she’s too high profile, and we’ve been keeping tabs on her.  But no one’s been tempted to talk?  No one’s accidently mentioned anything, down at the pub, at the gym, the post office, the betting shop?  Cole must pay her employees very well, that or Kronos operates a one strike and you’re out – permanently – policy.

Nothing on CCTV, no witnesses, nothing on the ANPR system because we don’t even have a license plate to check.  Emlyn’s been through Gaia’s financials, and we’ve discreetly checked the organization’s UK properties, but we can’t get authorization from MI5 or MI6 for full-time monitoring.  We don’t have evidence of a crime.  And even if there were, there’s nothing connecting Gaia to it.  Two women have gone missing from a fundraiser; that’s all.  And as for a search warrant?  Accusing the CEO of a major charity of being the mastermind behind an international crime syndicate, on the basis of psychic visions and “bad feelings”?  The judge would die laughing.  That or charge us with contempt.  At the very least a visit from Professional Standards. 

Babylon let us run an investigation, at first.  Hedged about with restrictions – our access to the databases was limited only to what we’d already shared with Cole, which was fucking frustrating.  And, as a safeguard, all information was to be funneled through the American team; Maela had only met them briefly, and her control, while improving, was “wonky” (her words, not mine; I swear, that girl’s more British than the British themselves).  The powers that be reasoned that she’d have more difficulty viewing the US team than me and Emlyn.  And they wanted the women back; Maela and Kailani were a researcher’s wet dream, and Babylon is stuffed with an awful lot of anoraks.  Amazing that the psychic sciences could attract so many intelligent yet painfully dull people, but there you go.

But as the weeks ticked by without any actionable leads, Babylon lost interest.  Or, reading between the lines of what Walker shared last month and Magnus’s visit has just confirmed, its attention has been redirected.  “Hold on Cole”.  That was it, just fuck along back to the filing and let the big boys take over.  The mighty middle finger.  And since then, nothing.  Babylon’s stopped the investigation in its tracks.  The plain fact is: Cole wants the girls; Babylon wants her formulas; and each side’s willing to play nicely, nicely.  I’m guessing the top brass think they’ll be able to deal with Cole once they have what they want, but since they’re about as much use as a wet fart in an elevator, they’re in for a rude awakening.  

Oh, we’ve been trying.  We made a show of following up on the public theories, interviewed Maela’s former neighbors, the members of the English faculty at Queen’s, sent the girls’ pictures to the French and Canadian police, brought known gang members in for questioning, all the while searching through Gaia’s financial records and having off-the-record chats with the London police.  Surprise, surprise, none of the Twitter theories yielded anything.  But we hoped management would see that we were good little agents, following orders to wind down the search, that we agreed, or at least accepted, that the girls had to be sacrificed for the greater good, that we cared more about our jobs than their lives, and back off the surveillance.

Conversations with Walker are painful.  We’re both so polite, so professional, so circumspect.  And, as the investigation gets kicked into the long grass, they’re becoming more infrequent. We really need to figure out a way to open up a back channel.  He doesn’t have my personal cell, the one I hope Babylon doesn’t know about; I don’t have his, and I’m kicking myself that we didn’t exchange them earlier, when the monitors might not have noticed.

I have to say, I feel for him.  Maddox shouldn’t have gone AWOL like that, without so much as a word of explanation or a follow-up phone call.  I told the chop as much, but he thinks he’s protecting Walker.  “Plausible deniability”.  I could brief Walker myself but not without breaking my word to Maddox.  And a man’s word is his bond.  That, and Maddox is my brother in arms; I christened him with blood, and he anointed me with tears and the sweat of his brow, one arm dangling uselessly as he dragged me to safety.  That burning building was our baptismal candle.  He’s asked for my silence, and I’ve given it.  A man looks after his family.

Truth is: I’d join him if I could.  But he’s both smart and stupidly honorable; he only communicates by burner phone, with cryptic, one-line messages: “Gone fishing”, “cloudy weather”, “Black Pollock still aren’t biting”.  That last one threw me, until I Google’d it and discovered it’s another name for Coalfish.  Maddox is on a one-man mission; he needs me to cover for him and feed him what intel we have, but he’s afraid of dragging me down if it all goes sideways.  Idiot.  So, I wait for a message on my mobile, send him an update by a burner phone of my own, then there’s radio silence until it starts all over from a new number.  And until one of us comes up with something, that’s just the way things have to be.  I know Maddox; I’m getting to know Walker; I don’t know the others, not really.  Hideo?  Already shown himself a company man.  Jonah?  So wet behind the ears they’re raining.  Some guy named Lachlainn, who may be a Bleeder but isn’t even on the team?  Names on a board.  I’m not trusting Maela’s life on that.  I’m not trusting my team on that.

My team.  I tap my fingers impatiently on the keyboard.  Emlyn’s solid, and Kavi, yeah, I think he’s legit, but Jorge?  OK, he checked out, but who meets a woman in a park?  He’s taking a walk and just happens upon a psychic?  What are the odds?  And he’s empathic himself?  He couldn’t even tell what was about to go down at the benefit.  Too many emotions be damned.  The server just happened to drop a tray of champagne?  How convenient.  And then he disappears?  I scowl and pick up the telephone.                

“Ryder.”  If grey were a sound, it would be Emlyn’s voice.  The man’s fading. 

“How well do we really know Alfaro?  For that matter, what about Sharma?  Jorge introduced them, didn’t he?”

“What?  Back up.  You’re not making any sense.”  I can sense Emlyn’s rubbing a hand over his face.

“Two words: inside job.”

There’s a long pause, then, “You’re saying you think Jorge was a mole.”

“It’s the kiss principle: keep it simple, stupid; present company excepted, of course.”  I’m encouraged by the continuing silence to go on.  “Who the fuck picks up women in a park?  Maela meets Jorge; Maela’s kidnapped; Jorge disappears.  A fucking B fucking C.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Dunno.  What the fuck does it matter?”

“Because you’re not making any sense.  We ran checks on both Jorge and Kavi, before we brought them in, and they are who they say they are.”

“But–”

Emlyn talks over me: “Besides, the timelines don’t fit.  Maela met Jorge and Kavi before Cole even knew she existed.” 

I’m not ready to give up; this idea has to work, because I’ve got nothing else.  “Cole could have suborned him afterwards.”

“You don’t really believe that.  Come on, you know them.  We share a house.  You saw how they reacted when Maela was taken.  Like looking into my own face.  Or yours.  And I’ve been keeping tabs on Jorge; he’s working in a bar, getting the shit kicked out of him by an ex-con.  If you don’t believe me, Swiss Miss had the same suspicions, and management vetted us all again, thoroughly.  They probably know you can only bench press 350, not 375 as you claim.”

I let my head fall back to stare at the ceiling.  “I’m clutching at straws, aren’t I?”

“Yes.  But I’ve done the same.  Don’t feel bad.”

“It’s just… the mountains have given birth to a mouse.”

“Translation?”

“We’ve put in a lot of effort and have Jack to show for it.”

“Ah.  Well, I can’t argue with you there.”

Belatedly remembering the probable wiretap, I sigh.  “Maybe it’s time to put things on hold.”

“Come again?”

“We’ve got nothing.  I’m not saying we close the case, but we’re going round in ever-decreasing circles.  We keep feelers out, sure, but we can’t keep working on it 24/7.  The girls are gone, perhaps for good.”

“You think they’re dead.”  The bleak words are a flail to the chest, but I push through.

“We have to consider that as a likely possibility.  That, or they really, really don’t want to be found.  Maybe we pushed them too hard.  Not everybody embraces an ability, you know that.  And MI6 is running out of patience, especially now that Babylon has cut us loose.  I was able to justify our continued involvement because the girls are foreign nationals and Cole is so high profile, but the bosses aren’t happy.  They’ve reminded me I have other cases.”

There’s silence, but I can hear Emlyn’s mind whirring.  “I did have to threaten Driscoll to get her to cooperate, right at the beginning,” he says reluctantly.

I want to reach down the line and throttle him, but I’m hardly in a position to judge.  “Some subjects embrace their talents; others end up feeling like lab rats.  Maybe Cole’s only crime is to have offered the girls shelter,” I say for the benefit of anyone listening in.  “For all we know, they’re sipping Mai Tais on a private island.  I’d love to get Reed and Driscoll back, but at least we have our research.  It’ll keep the analysts busy for years.”

“True,” Emlyn concedes, drawing out the word, making a show.  “One more round,” he bargains.  “We do one more sweep of Cole and Gaia.  I put a lot of work into training Driscoll, and we were finally getting somewhere.  She was finally developing some level of control.  If there’s a chance we can retrieve her, I want to take it.”  He sighs heavily.  “I feel responsible, like I owe it to her to leave no stone unturned.  I hadn’t considered that she might not want to be found.”  There’s another pause, and then he continues, as if he’s thinking aloud.  “Look, I don’t think MI5 will pull the plug just yet – we have to show the Yanks we’re still invested – but I’m inclined to agree with you.  We’re not going to progress the case unless and until new evidence comes to light.  I’ll run your theory, that the girls are voluntarily in hiding, but we may have to cut our losses.  Management aren’t happy here either, and unless I want to end up doing audits, I need to start making progress on other projects.”

“Noted.”  I hang up then, heart beating painfully.  Funny how I can still feel it, when I know it’s been ripped from my chest, gone to join my phantom limb in that nowhere somewhere of absent presence.  She lives; she moves; she breathes, cradling my heart in her smile.  I raise my left arm, what remains of it, and close my eyes.  And then I stroke Maela’s hair with my missing hand, slowly, gently, carefully, hoping she can feel each ghostly caress. 

MARCH 

O Lethe, take me to your abode.

My quill awaits your warm fingertips

O Lethe, flow me into your hands

Take me to your black, to find me, rest.

⁓ Alfred Jacob Mohan

I want to sleep, to sleep and not to live, 

In a sleep as soft as death…

⁓ Charles Baudelaire

The Swedish Chef

Hideo

Exhaustion is thick and viscous in the air, like breathing in water.  We’re all sitting around the sectional, joined unexpectedly by Flores and Marco, who showed up late this afternoon wearing matching frowns and carrying heavy binders.  We’d already wrapped up for the day, frustration at the lack of information making us angry and careless.  I’d called a halt to things when Walker began clenching and unclenching his fists as he’d tried to contact anyone, anyone from Babylon or the FBI or the British team.  Our phones had gone curiously silent a week or so ago – no calls were answered or returned, no texts, no emails.  It was as though we’d been put on an island by ourselves without our knowledge.  

I’d just made the executive decision to break out the alcohol when there was a buzzing at the gate.  Walker groaned and gulped a huge sip of his whiskey before growling out, “What now?”  

Lachy, settled in on the couch with a tumbler matching Walker’s in his hand, studied the image on his security feed.  “Unexpected visitors, but not unwelcome,” he responded, and a couple of minutes later, there was a rapid knock at the door.

“Good news and bad news,” Marco said shortly as soon as Walker opened the door.  He’d stepped in and glanced around the house, shooting a wary glance at Lachy, who just raised an eyebrow in response.  Flores pushed by Marco impatiently, her ever-present laptop balanced under her chin on top of five thick. black books.  

“Move,” she commanded shortly, before weaving over to the coffee table and dumping her armful unceremoniously on the surface.  “Well shit,” she groaned, collapsing on the couch.  “Lachy?  I can call you Lachy, right?  I mean, Kai complimented my boots – because, like, good taste – so I feel like she and I are 90% of the way to being friends.  If she likes me, I assume you’re not going to put the hurting on me, right?”  I fought a smile.  Against my better judgment I found myself warming to this girl.  She reminded me, in a way, of Kai.  Kai.  Her name was only a stab wound when I thought it now, instead of an axe swing. 

Lachy grinned at her and rolled his eyes.  “Lachy’s fine.  Thanks for not breaking my system this time.”

“No prob.  Do you have any tea I can make?  And then I can explain this mess,” she said, motioning toward the papers spilling off the table.

“Tea?”

“Yeah, I don’t like coffee.  I know, freak, right?”

“No, but you may want to reconsider a friendship with Kai.  I think she’s composed of 90% coffee.”

Flores shrugged.  “No, we’ll balance.  She’ll never have to worry about me stealing her stash.”  Her lips quirked into an unexpected smile.  “Chantalle’s already decided on her, so… it’s me too.  Poor Kai.  We’re a package deal.”

Lachy laughed and went to the kitchen after asking around for any other drink requests.  Marco put his own binders down, more gently than Flores, then moved to stand behind her, a Rottweiler on duty.

“So,” Flores said, answering our inquisitive looks.  “Chanty’s started doing her thing with that asshat Cooper.  She thought coming here would just cause questions if anyone were watching.  But she promised you guys the info from the computer, right?”

Jonah nodded.  “About Tennireef.  His rehab facility and doctor’s name.”

“Riiiiiiight.  And that’s where we’ve hit a little snag.”

Walker leaned forward, expression intent.  “What happened?”

“Well, we never really check the computer drive, you know?  We add to it, but we very rarely review it.  And…”  She looks pained.  “The drive’s been corrupted.  I don’t think the information is unrecoverable, but it’s going to take awhile to figure out what the hell happened.  And when it happened.  And, most importantly, how it happened.  Because–”

“Of course,” I interrupted, trying to mask my disappointment.  I motioned toward the stack on the table.  “What’s all this then?”

“This?  This is Chanty being fucking paranoid.”

Marco chimed in from behind Flores.  “She’s careful.  Not paranoid.  She prints out every transaction, every interview, all her notes, files them, and keeps it offsite at her place.  Some clients know about the hard drive, because they pushed some… boundaries… and we had to give them some physical reason why they needed to behave.  But no one knows about the backups outside of Terry, Flores, and me.  So, we have the information – we just need to dig for it.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Walker began to say as he approached the table, “but why so many binders?”

Marco and Flores exchanged a long look before Flores sighed.  “Okay, so.  She doesn’t separate out her various interests in different binders.  She does it by year, but… these are ledgers from all her companies, investments… everything.  Which – I can’t believe she’s letting you see this shit, to be honest.”

Marco nodded.  “It’s why you have me and Flores, not Terry.  He flat out didn’t agree with her trusting you this much.  But if she makes a promise, she keeps it.  So…”  He points at the stacks on the table.  “This is September through January.  She couldn’t remember when he originally made contact or when he provided the information, since it was over a few meetings, not just one and done.”

So for the last couple of hours our team has been pouring over bar logs, mortgages, property-rental details, fight-night earnings, payment stubs… you name it.  “I have to say,” I murmur thoughtfully.  “I’m impressed with the variety of investments.”

Marco looks at me sharply.  “Not really any of your business,” he warns, and I nod.  I can respect his caution.  

“Of course.  It was more an academic admiration than an investigative one.”  He nods, somewhat reassured, when there is a loud, buzzing sound.  Lachy frowns, directing his attention to Flores and Marco.

“Were you expecting someone?” he asks, on alert, and they both shake their heads.

“No.”  

He grabs his phone and frowns.  “I don’t know this man.  Anyone?”

Flashing the image in quick succession toward me, then Jonah, Marco, and Flores, no one responds until Walker sees it and pales dramatically.

“Ooooooh shit,” he whispers.  “Shit.  Guys–” but there’s no time for him to explain, because the car drives through the gate, sending an ear-splitting shriek of sound through the house.  Everyone but Walker jumps to their feet, Lachy and Jonah opening the gun safe rapidly while Marco and Flores frantically clean up the coffee table, piling papers and binders in a hodgepodge array, looking around for a safe space to hide them.

“My room,” Lachy barks, and they follow him as Jonah and I take positions near the door.  

“Walker!” I snap, but he looks at me through whiskey-heavy eyes.  “Is this guy a problem?  Focus!”

“Not for you,” he replies blankly, “but I’m fucked.”

“Weapons?” Jonah asks and sighs as Walker looks at him with a dull expression.  “Walker?  Weapons?”

He shakes his head in response as Lachy, trailed by Flores and Marco, comes back and punches a code into the panel on the wall, leaving a vacuum of sound as the alarm ceases.  He starts toward Walker, concern clear on his face, but a knock on the door stops him.  “What is this place, Broadway and 42nd?” he mutters, shooting a glance my way, and I’m reminded of the first time I ever came to Vashon, the first time I met Lachlainn, his beard laced with Christmas ornaments.  The memory makes me sick as the image of a drunken, dancing Kai surges forward in my mind, and I swallow hard, trying to push her back where she, and I, are safe.

“Think it’s going to be pizza this time?” I try to quip, and he grins at me tightly before opening the door.

Standing there, clearly impatient, is a punctilious man, fussy and frowning, but not, at first glance, threatening.  He surveys the room without speaking, lips curling in something approaching disgust when his eyes rest on Walker, who is slumped over on the couch, shoulders folded in.  The man in the door snorts derisively, before rolling his eyes and stepping into our home without invitation.  He pushes dismissively past Lachy, whose entire body tightens in response, before coming to stop at the edge of the room. 

The man is thin, small really.  Too small to intimidate Walker by size alone, and if I’m being completely honest, not much intimidates Walker, size or no, so this one must be a real piece of work.  Slender and pale, with a slight five o’clock shadow, he looks – well, he looks like a smug bastard.  Round, tortoiseshell glasses over lackluster, brown eyes, a thin, permanently pursed mouth, and longish, oiled-back hair complete his look.  Everything about him just screams government lackey.  HIs suit is expensive, European in cut, obviously not American, with a perfectly knotted tie, and a briefcase tucked tightly against his side.  He raises a single brow, looks Flores over with clear disapproval, and shakes his head before dismissing her as unimportant.

“Really, Donovan,” he begins in a short, rounded, almost Germanic accent, and suddenly it all makes sense.  I know who this is.  Or at least, I’ve heard of him.  Indirectly.   “Is this how you’ve been spending your time?  Rollicking and drinking?  No wonder you haven’t made any progress.”

Unexpectedly it’s Flores who responds.  “I have, and I want to be crystal clear about this, never seen someone with a more punchable face than you.  You should actually take it as a compliment, because I know a lot of assholes.  And you’d be their king.  Like, maybe even their emperor.  Emperor Asshole.”  Flores shrugs, flipping her braids over and exposing the shaved side of her head.  Glancing at Lachy, she narrows her eyes consideringly.  “You just gonna let him come into your house and talk shit like that?”

I am really, really beginning to like the girl.  Sighing, I study the man in front of me who has somehow silenced Walker.  In and of itself a feat, really – and I’m not sure I like it entirely.  Walker looks a bit like a kicked dog, tail between his legs, teeth bared, and I suddenly feel violently protective of him.  Of… well, of all of them, really.  My heart is cracking, expanding, pulling new people into its orbit, and it’s uncomfortable.  I’m not sure I completely understood what it would mean when I said that I would try, that we would be a brotherhood.  I certainly didn't think it would be this – this feeling of almost feral savagery that I’ve only felt for family before.  Somehow, when I painted each of them permanently onto my skin, things changed.  I thought maybe that it would be a gentle expansion, not this volcanic explosion of fire and ash, changing my topography so permanently.  But over the exhausting days and nights of the past weeks, united by a common purpose, the rest of the team refuses to accept the fact that not all people are meant to be pack animals, so… they haven’t left me a choice.  And the shield I used to hold first to cover Gemma, and then, more completely, Kai, expands in a propulsive moment to enclose my entire family.  

I have no excuse for what I do next, other than the fact that this… this person… decided he could walk into our home with no warning, insult our family, dismiss our friends, and act like he was the injured party?  Right.  Fucking right, then.  Before I can think, I’m moving, lightning quick, and he’s on the floor beneath me, arms wrenched behind his back, pressed suit torn, carefully oiled hair a mess, and thank God he can’t see my smile because it would ruin the facade.

“Shotridge, zip tie!” I snap out, and an openly laughing Jonah tosses me a line that’s near his go-pack.  Without loosening my grip on the quivering man’s hands, or taking my knee from his back, I quickly whip a tie around the guy’s wrists, tightening it down purposefully to cut into his skin.  Not making friends, Deo, I can almost hear Kai’s laughing voice, and I laugh grimly back, in my head.  I don’t need more friends.  I have enough.  Too many, but they won’t back off, so I guess I’m stuck with them.

The agent beneath me is spluttering in protest, alternating between Schweizerdeutsch and English, and before I know it, Lachlainn is at my side, wrapping a kitchen towel around the man’s mouth, muffling his angry babbling.

“Kronos agent?” he asks, faux-concern heavy in his voice.  “Should we interrogate him?”  

I nod.  “Of course.  But first…”  Running my hands over his suit, I quickly empty his pockets, laying the contents out on the table, before turning back and emptying his briefcase in a similar fashion.  The man’s gone red now, kicking his legs trying to right himself, and Flores sighs before going to sit on his back with a purposeful thump, eliciting a low groan from beneath her.  

“Carry on,” she motions, opening her small laptop and beginning a search.  “I’m going to run this guy.”  She pulls out a small, phone-sized pad from her pocket and rocks his fingers over it, taking his prints one by one.  If he was upset before, he’s alarmed now, trying to wrench his head around to lock eyes with Walker, who is watching the proceedings, dumbfounded.

“It’s nice to know that something will quiet you eventually, Donovan,” I snark, and he looks at me with wide eyes.

“Uh, shit.  Shit.  Deo, you… shit.”  His voice is a little wild, a chaotic edge of panic lacing his words.

I shrug, unconcerned.  “Let’s see who this is and why he’s here, shall we?”

Jonah is still sitting by his go-pack, eyes dancing, and, despite everything else happening around us, I’m suddenly incredibly happy to see the kid smile like this again.  The Kid.  You’re spending too much time with Walker.  He’s 25, for Pete’s sake.  Flipping the briefcase over, I note a golden emblem embedded in its glossy leather surface.   Two ornate strands of what appears to be nightshade curl around a rectangular, stepped pyramid, atop of which sits a winged lion.  Down the center are three, elaborately detailed symbols – immediately under the lion is a version of the all-seeing eye, followed by the shape of an eagle or something similar, wings outstretched, and lastly, a circle with a multi-pointed star in the center, ringed by what seem to be orbs in descending sizes.  Looking up at Walker with a raised brow, he sighs and shrugs.

“Babylon.”  

I nod but keep flipping through the paperwork, unimpressed.  There are dossiers on Walker, Jonah, myself, a cursory page for Maddox which just says AWOL, and a curiously blank page for Lachlainn.  Staring at the page for a moment, I frown, and then glance up to meet his face, which is also… blank.  Hmmm.  Lachlainn holds my stare, then smiles, just a tip of his lips, and shrugs.  Right.  Right.  Beyond that, there’s an “eyes-only” packet, sealed separately, and a letter of censure addressed to Walker, which I glance over, then rip up.  It’s bullshit, for the most part.  Lots of “dereliction of duty”, etc., but no real bite, which means it’s done for show and not action.  So, pointless in the end – the sort of thing written by desk jockeys who’ve never gotten their hands dirty.  

Grabbing the man’s phone now, I touch the screen and roll my eyes, openly disdainful.  “You must be joking.”  Donovan leans forward, just a touch, and I waggle the phone in front of him.  “He has it set to Touch ID.”  

That surprises Donovan, in a good way, the arrogant, self-satisfied smirk I’m used to seeing flashing across his face for a moment.  “Tsk, tsk, Magnus.  That’s openly against protocol.  No face recognition, no touch ID.  You’re getting sloppy.  Fremdschämen.”  Real amusement is entering his voice now, and I can tell he’s beginning to enjoy the ride.  Reaching the phone around, I murmur a quiet apology to Flores for getting in her way and press the phone to his thumb.

“He’s left-handed,” Walker notes, and the squeals of protest from the prone man – Magnus, I suppose – increase in volume and ferocity.

“Oh stop it,” I snap, and perhaps he’s not used to being spoken to like that, because, for a moment, he does.  Taking his phone back to the table, I flip through emails, recent messages, contacts, files… anything I can get my hands on, really.  Jonah rifles through his bag and pulls out a small device, then holds out his hand in silent demand for the phone.  I pass it over, and he plugs it in before hitting a couple of buttons and setting the entire contraption down on the table.

“Nice tech,” Flores notes, surprise clear in her voice, still from her position on our visitor’s back.  She obviously didn’t provide it, and Jonah grins at her.  

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve.  Nothing like yours though.”  

Flores shrugs in response.  “Not many do.  I’m fucking amazing at my job,” she replies without a hint of self-deprecation.

It earns a sharp laugh from the silent man in the corner, who, to be honest, I’ve almost forgotten was there.  Marco, I remind myself.   There are too many people here.  Too many people involved.  Shaking my head, I look back at Jonah, who holds up a finger, saying, “Aaaaaand… done.  Should I wipe it?”

Squeals again from the man on the floor, like a little piglet, and I nod.  “Absolutely.  And anything that’s on a cloud server, too.  Only a fool would keep all their information on a single device.  And if he’s a fool, he deserves what’s coming to him.”

Jonah grins, that dark, feral grin that is new to him since Kai’s been gone and, in a few movements, has returned the phone to its factory settings.

“Well.  Shall we talk to our uninvited guest?”  Flores hops off his back and sits in the far corner of the kitchen, by Marco, their heads bent together as they look at her computer screen.  I pull the man up to his feet and sit him none too gently in the chair in front of me, then remove his makeshift gag, and cut his hands free.  “Du wirst dich verdammt noch mal entschuldigen!”   Outrage is clear in every line of his face, but my patience for him is thin to fraying.

“Halt deinen Mund!” I snap back, stunning him to silence.  “Das ist mein Haus. Du verstehst? Mein Haus. Wenn du deinen Mund nicht hältst, halte ich ihn für dich.”  My German isn’t perfect, it never has been, but it’s clear enough that he gets the gist.

“You… you speak German?” he stutters, and I roll my eyes.

“Oh, you think Americans can’t be bilingual?  Typical.”

“It’s not in your briefing sheet,” he replies tightly, and I grab my sheet from the pack.

“Well.  This sheet, to quote one of my favorite people, suuuuuucks.”  Jonah snorts beside me.  I didn’t even hear him approach, and he looks over the paper I’m holding, then grabs his own.  

“Yeah, you left like, three languages off mine.  Not to help you at all, but…”

The man sniffs disdainfully.  “We only record useful languages.  Na-Dené languages aren’t on the list.  Most native languages aren’t included.”

The man’s face snaps back with the force of Jonah’s fist before the words have finished leaving his mouth, and a thin trickle of blood runs down from his nose.

“Verdammt!”

“Oops.  Slipped.”  Jonah’s voice is unrepentant.  “Also, sidenote.  Without Native languages, World War II would have gone a lot differently.  Oh, but you wouldn’t know much about that.  Would you.”  It’s a flat statement, his eyes narrow in distaste.  

“I didn’t make the list.”  It’s not an answer, not really, and definitely not an apology.

Lachy ambles over and grabs his own sheet.  “Hmmm.  Well, you’ve clearly done your research here.  Just every little piece of me laid bare before you.”  He and the fastidious man lock eyes, and Magnus smirks, which makes me oddly nervous.

“I assume we felt it wasted effort to look into a… trögis.  I can’t imagine what use a backwoodsman would have for us.  Unless, oh!  If we needed some wood chopped, hmmm?  You’re, what… a Hussfrau, I think.  Cooking, cleaning… building little tables and chairs in your barn, nein?”  His tone is dismissive, and Lachy grins down at him, teeth flashing, but it’s feral and wild, and the tension in the room skyrockets.  “If we need to interrogate der hirsch, a deer, of course I’ll come to you straightaway.”

Tilting his head, Lachy nods, like he’s made a decision, and his voice is friendly when he addresses our guest.  “Magnus, is it?  When all this is over, I’d love to take you for a hike in the woods.  I think you would appreciate the scenery – some of the hidden places most people never get to see.”  Lachy holds his massive paws in front of Magnus’s face, and his eyes darken, though his smile remains fixed in place.  “Maybe I’ll show you some of the things I’ve done with just these two hands.  But first, I think you owe my brother over there an apology.” 

I have no idea what it means, and clearly neither does Magnus, but the threat in the innocent words is clear and not something even I would go against.

“I… apologize,” he says to Jonah, the words obviously stones in his throat.  “Again, however, I am but the messenger.  I don’t decide what is important to know.”

Jonah looks at him, then up at me, and says, in passable Japanese, “Uso-tsuki.”

Liar.  I don’t know when Jonah’s been learning Japanese, but I do know he’s remarkably good at knowing when people are telling the truth.  And this man is not.

Flores crows from the corner, a clear sound of victory, and moves to stand by me, angling her computer screen so I can see what is written there.  “Oh, you Swedish-Chef-looking motherfucker!” she bites out, shaking her head, braids jangling.  

“I am Swiss,” he snaps back, and she shrugs, unconcerned.

“I clearly don’t care.”  She rolls her eyes at me and asks, real worry on her face, “Did it seem like I cared?  I mean, did I somehow give that impression?  Because if I did, it was totally an accident.”

I can’t help it and smile.  She’s so like Kai in some ways it’s making my heart hurt.  The screen has a background on the man sitting before me, from birth certificate to school records, to…  “Your Tinder profile needs some work,” I say, tilting my head.  “There’s no chance you’re 5’9, even on your best day.  I’d guess 5’7.  With heels on.”

Walker groans quietly and puts his head in his hands but doesn’t interrupt.

The Swedish Chef is less hesitant.  “You have no idea what you’re doing.  This is unacceptable.”

“Oh, is it?” I ask, voice tight, the sharp, gleaming edge of a knife glinting in my words.  Jonah walks over beside me to look at the computer screen and shakes his head.

“What’s acceptable to you seems to have a really wide definition.  Jesus.”  Tapping the screen, he reads down the list.  “Thesis on Akira Makino’s work.  Two years working with scientists in North Korea… ‘consensual’ testing, my ass.  Have you even heard of the Declaration of Helsinki?  Gun running, backroom deals…  Aren’t you supposed to be one of the good guys?  Christ!”

“The good guys?”  He adjusts his glasses in precise, tight movements and then flutters his hand at Jonah, cynical amusement clear in his voice.  “The good guys.  Ah, you Americans.  You want me, what, to have a cape and shield, like your Captain America?  Hmmm?  Flying in my invisible jet to save the day?”  Glancing at Walker, he shakes his head.  “You didn’t tell me you work with such children.”  Walker’s eyes narrow in anger, but Magnus pushes on.  “Yes, Mr. Shotridge.  I am, as you so simply put it, a good guy.”

“No, actually.  No, he’s not.”  The flare of surprise in the Swiss man’s eyes at Walker’s words is surprisingly gratifying.  “He’s not a good guy.  He’s just on the good guys’ team.  He’s a bad guy who just happens to play for us.”

Magnus splutters in indignation.  “I take great offense at that.”

“Yeah, well, the truth hurts sometimes.”

Brushing invisible lint off his clothes, Magnus takes a careful, steadying breath and then glares at Walker, lips twisted.  “Oh, I know.  I know.  Agent Donovan, surprisingly, doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.  He… objects… to some of the tactics we need to use in order to obtain our information, some of the paths we must travel down towards the darkness in order to reach the light, no?  But here is what he won’t tell you – if I didn’t do it, and people like me, all of your good intentions and righteous indignation would mean sheisse when the ‘bad guys’ come around.  Hmmm?  You can stand on your soapbox all you’d like, but there is a reason they put people like me in charge, and not people like you.  Maddox knew this, despite what you may think.”

“Yeah, well, Madds never takes pleasure in the ‘dark parts’ of the job like you do, Magnus.  And you fucking know it.”

Magnus examines his nails, looking bored.  “What?  Am I supposed to feel guilty for enjoying my work?  Many people search their entire lives trying to find a profession which they are passionate about.”

Walker looks sick at the statement, and I decide to take over.  “Go get yourself cleaned up,” I say briefly.  “We’ll talk when you return.”

Magnus flashes me a tight, thin-lipped smile.  “We have a saying, my family.  It’s something like, ‘don’t try driving the bus when you’re a passenger’.  You’d do well to remember that.  Wo ist das badezimmer?” he asks Lachy, and I don’t miss the fact that Lach doesn’t ask for a translation, just points silently to the downstairs bathroom.  Secrets on top of secrets, I think.  Once he’s gone, we all exchange silent looks, and Walker sits at the table, his head in his hands.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Jonah says finally.  “Who is that?”

“Pause,” Flores interjects from where she’s now standing, shoulder to shoulder with Marco.  They exchange entire paragraphs in one quick glance and, with clear reluctance, come to a decision.  “I think it’s best if we exit before things get even more fucked than they already are.  This–” she waves her hand vaguely toward the hallway where the pernicious grub of a man just wandered, “this is beyond.”  Cocking her head, still staring down toward the bathroom, she twists her lips in a self-satisfied smile.  “But.  I’ll send you what I can find on him.  He’s obviously a tenured professor at Assclown University, and I really like getting to mess with guys like that.  I want to stay – this is surprisingly fun, actually – but… we’re lighting up enough radars already, yeah?”  

With quick, efficient movements, they hurry to Lach’s room to grab their stuff, I assume, then, with a mumbled goodbye from Flores and a scornful look from Marco, they exit.  From down the hall, the faint sound of a sink turning on drifts our way, and Jonah turns to Walker.

“Spill it, man.  Quick.”  

“That,” Walker sighs into his hands, “is the head of Babylon’s Swiss team and the European lead.  And he’s a real peach.  Christ.  I wish Madds were here.”  His voice is somber, sad, and I suddenly realize how much he must miss our resident Viking.  Maddox’s absence has left a noticeable hole in our team, but for Walker, he wasn’t just the team lead, he was a friend.  And it strikes me how hurt Walker must be, to have been left behind without word.  To have lost both his best friend and his… and Kai… in one go.  But I don’t know what to say to help him.

Jonah tilts his head, clearly thinking, brow furrowed, then says slowly, “Tick fucking tock, Walker?”

Walker’s head jerks up, pale and worried, but a small smile breaks on his face.  “Tick fucking tock, Jonah.  How the fuck do you remember that?”

Jonah shrugs.  “I don’t know what it means, dude.  But Kai and I watched you guys scream about fondue and wobble around like chickens.  It’s pretty hard to forget.  So, like, no clue why you were doing it, but if you need someone to hate this Swiss jacker with you, I’m game.”

Walker straightens, looking more like himself with every passing moment, and glances hurriedly at the bathroom door.  “Thanks, brother.  I’ll take it,” he says quietly, suppressing a grin, and Jonah nods seriously.  

“Anytime.  Fuck him.”  

The door opens, and we all settle around the table.  I can’t wait to tell Kai about this, I think, and the knife is back in my stomach. 

Operation Paperclip

Lachy

“We have decided to disband your current team.”  

The words are dropped like a stone into a still pond, and the ripples out shake all of us.

“What?”  Walker’s voice is a stunned whisper, barely audible.  Magnus just shrugs a single, elegant shoulder, as though he had told us the weather, not verbally punched our friend in the face. 

“You have been essentially useless since that woman ran off.”  His tone is cool, dismissive, and I can see Jonah’s knuckles turn white as his hands clench to fists.  

“She did not run off.”  The venom in Hideo’s words would warn off any cautious man, but Magnus shrugs again, uncaring.

“You have no proof that she was taken.  And you’ve wasted countless man-hours and untold amounts of effort to find someone who clearly has no interest in being found.”

“Cole–”

“Elizabeth Cole has spent thousands of dollars of her own, personal funds to find those women.  Thousands.  With receipts, as you Americans say,” Magnus interrupts Walker sharply.  “She has made public pleas on multiple news outlets, online, on the television, on the radio for heaven’s sake.  Consistently.  Almost unceasingly.  Even when others have tired of it.”

“But she’s the one–”

Again, Magnus cuts Walker’s words off.  “She isn’t the Boogeyman, Donovan.  She’s not all-powerful, however much you may think she is.  Has she done some… questionable things… in the past?  Not proven, of course.  But yes, the whispers are there.  Still.  We don’t operate off whispers.  We deal in facts.  And the facts are that your team has effectively gone rogue.”  He sighs, shaking his head.  “Things are changing, Donovan.”  Sitting up straighter, he adjusts his glasses meticulously, and a small smirk flashes across his face.  Whatever is coming isn’t good.  Not good at all.  “I’ve been tasked with delivering several pieces of operational importance, the first and most pressing of which is that your previous lead, Maddox Smith, is now listed as a renegade agent.  He has been put on the blacklist to be brought in for immediate debriefing, with any force necessary.”  Walker looks sick to his stomach at the news, but the Swiss man continues.  “Higher-ups have made the decision already.  It’s pointless to argue.  You should know that.  If you receive any communication, you’re under direct orders to report it immediately.”

Walker’s eyes narrow.  “Like hell–”

“Immediately, Agent Donovan.  Or you risk censure at the least, if not imprisonment for stonewalling an active investigation.”  The same self-righteous smirk crosses his face again, and I realize I’ve never hated anyone so much in such a brief period of time.  “I’m feeling generous today, as it were, so I’ll let you in on a little secret.  Direct evidence will not be required in this instance.  Circumstantial evidence will be enough cause to confine you.  So if I were you, I would…  What’s the expression?  Ah yes.  Play ball.”

Walker’s hands are shaking, but his voice is level when he replies.  “Am I being reassigned to a different team, then?”

Jonah straightens at the words, face worried, and I feel his emotion mirrored in the twisting of my stomach.  Walker… reassigned?  Not with us anymore?  The thought, which several months ago would have been cause for rejoicing, is poison now.  He’s too much a part of us.  Our brother by choice, if not by blood.

“No.”  Magnus’ response is a relief, if a bitter one.  “You’re being placed on indefinite administrative leave, pending investigation into your… attachments.”

“With pay?”  Walker sounds like he’s about to throw up.

Magnus sniffs.  “With pay.  Currently.  Though, of course, everything is subject to change.  Be thankful you’re not under full suspension, like your British counterparts.  Given their… close… association with that woman, and the very concerning possibility she could view them for Kronos… well.  If it were up to me, you’d all be out with the trash.  As it is, there’s an active file open on you and your team, to include Ms. Reed.  If lines were crossed… well.  Hopefully you kept everything professional and aboveboard is all I can say.”

“Am I reverting to a full FBI operative?”

“You are not.  If you are released from Babylon, they won’t take you back, for security purposes.”

“Maddox?”  Walker can’t even finish the question, but Magnus clearly knows where he’s leading.

“He’s considered a fugitive by both agencies.   He made poor choices, Donovan.  And his poor choices are coming home to roost with you.  But, for now, they are granting you some leeway.”  Magnus leans over the table and locks eyes with our clearly flustered friend, his voice now closer to a hiss.  “You’re lucky it’s not my operation.  You’ve been left to wallow, yes, wallow, in self-pity, for far too long.  It has been close to three months.”  The first hint of frustration enters Magnus’s voice.  “In all this time you’ve accomplished nothing.  You used to be one of our most dependable agents.  And now?  You’re weak.  A little lovesick hündchen.  Which makes you vulnerable.  And if you are vulnerable, you are not valuable.  You are a liability.  Leading with the wrong head, hmm?”  Shaking his head disdainfully, he brushes an imaginary speck of dirt off his lapel, straightening his jacket fastidiously.  “Really, Walker.  Is it all worth it?  For some schlampe, you and Maddox lose everything you’ve spent years building?”

Before I can react, Hideo is on his feet, face blank with a killing rage.  Jonah’s closer to him than I am and surges forward, wrapping his arms around Deo and pulling him back.  “We can’t.  We can’t,” Jonah murmurs over and over again, even as the silent man struggles against his restraints.  “Hideo.  You can’t.”

Deo is vibrating with fury.  I know the look, know the feeling, and know that, if Jonah lets go, the agent in front of us will be dead on the ground before he can take another breath.  Magnus doesn’t seem to realize the danger he’s in and rolls his eyes dramatically.  “Agent Tanaka?  You have something to say?”

Taking a deep breath, face carefully empty, Deo stills enough that Jonah lets him go, albeit cautiously.  Dark eyes fixed on the smaller man in front of him, Deo steps forward with an icily calm facade, moving silently with a leopardlike grace.  The foreign man must have some sense of self-preservation, because he instinctively backs up a step before realizing he’s given up ground.  Deo comes to within inches of him, then stops.  

“When this is over – when we have Kai, and the rest of the world has moved on to its next crisis – I just want you to remember this moment.  This is your last breath as a living man.  Every one you take from here on out is borrowed time.  Every.  Single.  One.  You’re dead already.  You just don’t know it yet.”

Magnus swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down on his thin neck, and presses his thin lips together.  “Is that a threat, Agent Tanaka?” 

“It is not,” Deo replies softly.  “Not a threat at all.  Just a fact.”  Reaching out his hands, he straightens the Swiss man’s suit in careful movements, like a tailor, brushing off the shoulders, adjusting the lapel.  Magnus doesn’t flinch, but his entire body is alert, like a deer caught in headlights.  Deo steps back, cocking his head, and nods once.  “A fine-looking corpse,” he whispers, and the color drains from Magnus’s face.  “So lifelike.  One would almost think him still alive.  Almost.”  

Magnus is trembling now and doesn’t look away from Hideo’s dark eyes.  Everything is still, glass waiting to shatter, and the moment is only broken by Jonah laying a gentle hand on Deo’s arm, pulling him, unresisting, back to his seat.

“You said you had several pieces of news for us?” Jonah asks flatly, and the Swiss man grabs at the opening.

“Ye–.”  He clears his throat and tries again.  “Yes.  The second is more of a courtesy than anything else.  And a warning of sorts.  Babylon has come to a decision regarding Elizabeth Cole and her philanthropy work with the Gaia Foundation.”  And now we are all on alert.  His phrasing is careful.  He’s not saying “Kronos”, which is worrying.  He continues, “After a month of in-depth talks and consideration, Cole has, in a show of good faith, decided to welcome Babylon scientists into the medical wing of Gaia and share all of her research and proprietary formulas.  Under strict non-disclosure agreements, of course, and with agreed-upon guidelines by both parties.  We have been given full access to all Gaia laboratories and research facilities.  To put it bluntly, the powers that be have decided that Cole, and her network, are incredibly valuable in furthering Babylon and its mission, so she is, for all intents and purposes, now working for the good guys.”  He smirks, and the world shifts on its axis. 

“I don’t understand…”  Walker’s voice is broken, betrayal raw in its depths.  “How… we can’t.  Magnus.  You can’t be serious.  Babylon would never…”

Magnus sighs and looks at Walker, something close to pity clear in his eyes.  “This is why you’ve never moved up the ranks, Donovan,” he says softly.  Shaking his head, he sits at the table again and leans forward earnestly.  “You’ve never understood the way the game is played, not really.  I know what you think of me – you’ve made it abundantly clear.  You with your black-and-white, wrong-or-right vision.  It’s useful.  It is.  I know people like you have your place within the organization.  But so do I.  So do I.  And you’ve never understood why, because you don’t want to know how the sausage is made.  Not really.”  Magnus leans back in his chair, clearly considering something, then comes to a decision.  “I will try one last time, Donovan.  Because I know, despite our differences, that you’re a good agent.  A decent man…”  The word has hidden meanings and is clearly bitter on the Swiss man’s tongue.  He continues, “Have you ever heard of Operation Paperclip?”

Walker shakes his head slowly, Jonah echoing the movement, but Deo and I exchange knowing looks.  As a chemical engineering student, one of my internships was at NASA, working on prototypes for long-term space travel.  My stomach twists.  I know this story.

“To achieve the greater good, for the betterment of mankind, sometimes we must make undesirable choices.  Do you understand that?”

Walker shakes his head.  “It is never the right choice to work with evil.”

“Evil.”  Magnus half-laughs, suddenly sounding tired.  It’s the most genuine thing that I’ve heard from him since I met him.  “Ah, Donovan.  Good and evil are just two sides to the scale, in balance.  You’re so sure of yourself, of your righteousness.  But did you know that, in the years following the second World War, your government imported hundreds upon hundreds of Nazi scientists, with full immunity, to come work for your country?  You turn your nose up at the Swiss for their neutrality, but we were open in our decision.  You, you were hypocrites, railing against the horrors of Nazi Germany but secretly recruiting their scientists, first to help in war efforts, and then to propel your research forward in the Space Race.”  Walker looks shattered; Jonah resigned.  “Do you know the name Wernher von Braun?  He was a member of the Nazi party and the Allgemeine SS.  Developed the V2 rocket.  By the late 1950s, he was making films with your Walt Disney about space travel, and by 1960 was the director of the Marshall Space Flight Center.  Or Hubertus Strughold?  Father of Space Medicine, having worked in high-level posts with NASA and the US Air Force, never mind his pesky associations with Nazi human experimentation.”

Magnus stands, pacing back and forth in barely suppressed frustration.  “You want all of our results without getting your hands dirty.  You want the good guys to win, and the bad guys to lose, and for those battles to happen honestly and openly.  You’re a child.  The good we do, the people we help, the people we save… it comes at a price.  And what does it say about you that you’re not willing to pay that price?”

Walker glares at Magnus.  “I’m not willing to sell my soul to save anyone, other than the men in this room and the women who are missing from it.  Then the devil can take me, and gladly, if it keeps them safe.  How are you any different from Kronos, if you’re willing to stoop to their level?”

An icy cold settles on his features, aging Magnus by decades in the space of a breath.  “All the dark deeds I’ve done have been for a better tomorrow.  That’s the difference.  Not for my own benefit, or profit, but the hope that, in my sacrifice, something new and greater than me will be born.  What good would your morality be if we stood on our soapbox while the rest of the world crumbled?”  

“What good was any of it, then?”  Walker sounds exhausted, like he’s been turned inside out.  “Why were we even told to find out about Kronos, if we’re just caving to them?”

“We need to know the beast to tame the beast,” Magnus replies cryptically.  “And when the well gives no more water, things will change.  But until that point, poisoned water is better than none at all.”

“She’s smarter than you’re giving her credit for,” Jonah interjects, and Magnus turns to him, surprised, almost like he’d forgotten Jonah was there.

“We’re smarter than you’re giving us credit for.  Do you think we don’t know what she is?  But we also know her Achilles heel.  She wants to be recognized for her achievements, her contributions to humanity.  We can give her that – that path to respectability.  To Nobel Prizes, or government committees.  And if she sees that honey attracts more flies than vinegar, we’re confident that she’ll be convinced to disband her less reputable endeavors to concentrate on legal ones.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Jonah asks dubiously.

“Well.  If she doesn’t, then… accidents happen.  Even to the most beloved people.”

“So you just forget everything she’s done, everything she’s organized, everyone she’s hurt?  Just close your eyes to that?”

“Her database will move us decades ahead of the curve.  Decades.  What she’s done – prior to our association, of course… well, do we just throw away the information and research because of how it was obtained?  Most modern medicine would be forfeit, then.  Are you willing to give up the vaccines you have, the medications that keep you healthy, even the techniques used in the operating room, because they were developed in unethical ways?”  He snorts derisively.  “You want there to be good and bad and nothing in between.  When the truth of the world is that most things happen in the in-between.”  Taking his glasses off, he rubs a hand across his face and sighs.  “I know you don’t like me, Walker.  And here’s the truth.  I don’t like you either.  You’re a liability, with your moral blinders on.  But I’m going to tell you something I learned a long time ago.  And I sincerely hope you listen.”

Magnus stands, slowly gathering his things while talking.  He doesn’t look at any of us, just methodically straightens his papers and files them in his briefcase.  “Think about being in an airplane when there is a storm.  If you are in a small airplane, you can’t get above the clouds, and you’re forced to change course, or maneuver around the weather, or you deal with such turbulence it threatens your life.  You feel every thunderclap, every lightning strike, every pressure-change as though each moment were your last.  But… but.  If you are in a larger airplane, and you get above the clouds, it doesn’t matter how bad the storm below is.  You are safe, no matter what happens underneath you, hmmm?  And if the wind changes direction, what does it matter?  You are above it all.  You cannot be touched.  All of us worker bees – we are all below the clouds.  And we don’t always survive the storms.  But the people in charge?  They are above the clouds.  And rarely, if ever, do they fall prey to the lightning.  No matter what happens.  One day they are a Nazi scientist, experimenting on human beings in tortuous ways.  The next day they are in charge at NASA.  The guard of the camp?  The young soldier who was threatened, or had his family threatened, who was conscripted and forced to participate?  Ah.  Well.  He will be tried for war crimes.  He will be drawn and quartered, executed for carrying out decisions he was forced to enact.  Was he faultless?  Blameless?  No.  Of course not.  But did he delight in it, participate in it fully like his superiors who ran things?”  Magnus shrugs.  “Who was in Epstein’s little black book, Walker?  The case was well publicized.  You should know, but you don’t, because the people in it?  The politicians, the actors, the high society?  They are above the clouds.  Despite everything, they remain untouchable.”

Briefcase loaded, Magnus stares down at us, face tight, mouth pinched.  “My time here is up.  Here is your caution, for what it’s worth.  If you do anything, anything, that is seen as a move against Cole until Babylon has taken its pound of flesh from her, you will be considered rogue, and dealt with accordingly.  Will your years of faultless service mean anything then?  Will her years of atrocious behavior?  No.  Because the plain fact is, she is worth more than you.  When someone is held accountable, you had best believe it will be someone disposable.  And you, Walker, despite all your ideals and morals, you are disposable.  You are barely hanging on by a thread right now, to anything.  Once Maddox’s investigation is closed, you will maybe be reinstated, reassigned.  If that happens, remember.  Only those above the clouds make real change.  The rest of us are subject to the winds.  Don’t be stupid, Donovan.  Don’t communicate with Smith.  Forget the girl – you barely knew her.  Don’t risk losing everything for the possibility of something.  You will not win.  Do you understand me?  You will not win.”

Moving towards the door, he calls out a final warning, regret and determination both ringing true.  “Donovan… even if we find the girls – you have to know by now that you’ll never get them back.  They are unique specimens.  Babylon would never harm them, of course, if they cooperate.  They’ll be given the best care, offered the finest amenities.  But be smart.  Do you honestly think that she’ll be allowed to just, what, come back here and be with you?”  Magnus’s voice cools, and all traces of sympathy disappear.  “We are the winning team because we make the right plays, even if they are difficult.  Especially because they’re difficult.  Don’t mistake hard choices for bad choices.  We differ from Kronos because we don’t seek to better ourselves, but the world around us.  I’m sorry to shatter your ideals, but you’ve been a child too long.  It’s time to grow up.  Don’t contact us; we’ll contact you.   Consider yourself confined to this island until further notice.  Oh, and Walker?  We’re always watching.”

Closing the door behind him, Magnus leaves.  And the four of us sit in silence, wondering how we move forward from this moment.

Plotting

Maela

Kailani has many wonderful qualities, but subtlety isn’t one of them, at least, not when she’s herself.  When she isn’t herself, when she spirals and they’re trying to calibrate her medication, then she’s a glass-eyed doll, limbs akimbo, propped up in a chair.  She’s been doing well recently, which is watering my dreams of a little cottage, hidden away in the woods, where the two of us could potter about, looking after each other.  I could take care of her when she had an episode, make sure she was safe, coax her back to reality, and she could look after me when the tiredness made me sick, when I was so weary I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, only lie there and breathe.  The cottage is far, far away from everyone and everything, yet close to a Starbucks, because I know that is important to Kailani.  We are the only customers; the owners don’t care about making a profit; in fact, they just restock once a month and leave us alone to make our own coffees.  

“... do you think?” Kailani asks, cocking her head.

“Hmmm?” I realize my mind’s been drifting and force it to tune back in.  “Uh, isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

She rolls her eyes.  “Well, yeah.  That’s the whole point.  One swift elbow to the chin, and your assailant goes down.”

Kailani’s testing out escape plans, under the guise of telling me about “kick-ass scenes” from action films.  I can see why I dreamed she was the physically dominant one in our partnership; to hear her talk, you’d think she’d actually done the moves.  In her head, she’s just not used to taking garbage from anyone; in her head, she’s free.  But the situation calls for a softly, softly approach.  She shouldn’t have mentioned “a Nurse Ratched type of character”; I’m not so sure the listening ears won’t pick up on the subtext.  

“Hold that thought.  Just going to nip to the bathroom.”

“Shouldn’t you say ‘loo’?” she teases.

“Only if you want to be U about it.  That or ‘lav’.  ‘Lavatory’ is best.”

Kailani’s face is a picture.  “The fuck?”  

“‘U’ – ‘upper class’, ‘non-U’ – the great unwashed,” I explain.

“Girl.  Clearly, clearly I’m ‘non-U’, so what would I say?”

“Toilet.”

“Ew,” she cringes.  “Way to put it out there.  So which one would ‘bathroom’ be?”

“Well,” I say seriously, “‘bathroom’ is American, so probably sub-non-U.”

“Huh.  My life is now complete.”

I snigger tiredly as I go to the bathroom and make a show of using the facilities.  When I come out, I turn my back to the camera-clock, leaning casually against the bookshelf.  “So, what about music?  What are your favorite bands?”

She tilts her head, pondering, and I take the opportunity to mouth, O – K – How – can – we – dis-able – the or-der-lies?

I must be lip-mumbling, because Kailani looks puzzled and abruptly announces, “You know, I think I need to go to the laaaav myself.”  I go flop down on my bed, trying to think, think, think.

Coming back out, Kailani arches a brow and takes up my place by the bookshelf.  “So, bands.  I’m eclectic, but Indie Rock is always awesome.  Your classics like Radiohead or Arctic Monkeys.”  What – a-bout – ca-me-ra?  Upward eye flick.       

Yeah, she’s better at this, or maybe I’m better at lip reading. 

“Umm, don’t really know much about it, to be honest.”

Lip bite.  “You should definitely check it out.  It’s pretty chill.  Of course, if you want something edgier, you can go towards the punk strain, like Bikini Kill.”  Move – it?  Cov-er – it?  Break – it?  

“That’s not really a name, is it?  I mean, how did they get anywhere, with a name like that?”

Slight frown.  “Yeah, they pissed off the establishment.  Some people don’t like Riot Grrrl music.  So about you?  What sort of stuff do you like?”  I-de-as?

“I’m pretty eclectic too.  Kind of open to anything.  Let’s see.  Umm.  I like Latin Pop.  So, Enrique Iglesias?  So, you know, ‘Bailamos’, ‘Hero’, ‘Don’t Turn Out the Lights’, and ‘Escapar’?  Do you know it?”

Exaggerated eye roll.  “Not sure.  Remind me”

I start to sing ‘Tum-tum-tum, All it takes is some trying, tum-tum-tum, you can hide, you can run…” I trail off. 

“Oh, yeah, I know that one.  But I’m more of a ‘Burning Down the House’ sort of girl.  You know, fightin’ fire with fire.”

Oh God.  “I also like 80s bands,” I say quickly.  “Like Erasure.”

She’s momentarily diverted.  “Seriously?”

“Come on, everybody likes ‘A Little Respect’.  But my favorite is ‘Oh L’Amour’.”  My mind flickers to the guys, and I suddenly feel unbearably sad.

My face must betray me, because Kailani looks worried and chirps, “Oh, sure.  I dig Dead or Alive too.  Like, ‘You Spin Me Round’ and um…”

“And ‘Brand New Lover’.  I’ve got the solution, I’m leaving tomorrow,” I warble.

Kailani’s eyes brighten.  “Yeah, I definitely like Dead or Alive.  You can’t beat a bit of 80s music.”

“Uh huh.  Like U2.  Did you know that ‘Bad’ is about heroin addiction?”

Kailani looks thoughtful.  “I did not.  But a lot of songs are about drugs, aren’t they?”  

“Eric Clapton: ‘Cocaine’,” I blurt out.  My mind’s going fuzzy, and Kailani looks pained.

“Sure, or ‘Sippin on Some Sizzurp’ and ‘I Feel Like Dying’.  Loads of bands write about pharmaceutical drugs.”

“Yeah,” I answer blankly.  I can feel the synapses shutting down one by one.  “‘Sister Morphine’?  Can’t beat the Rolling Stones.”  Did I accuse Kailani of being unsubtle?  I’m being about as subtle as a house brick.  “And ‘I’m Gonna Be’,” I add, almost desperately.

Kailani gives me a where-are-you-going-with-this look.  “Don’t know that one.”

“Everybody knows it.  500 Miles?  But I would walk 500 miles,” I trill, in my best Scottish accent.  “And I would walk 500 more!”  I mean, who would really walk five hundred miles?  But it’s the sentiment that counts.”   

“Definitely.  Just imagine.”  Give – drugs – to – nurse?  At – night?  She makes a what-do-you-think face.

“Imagine,” I nod.  We sit in silence for a moment, and then I see the camera light flicker out of the corner of my eye.  We’ve been talking too long.  “Message keeps gettin’ clearer,” I hum.  “Radio’s on and I’m movin’ ‘round my place.”  I’m praying she picks up on the warning.

She does.  “‘Dancing in the Dark’???  Bruce Springsteen?” she asks, as if I’ve just confessed to enjoying a spot of dogging on the weekends.  “Fuck me, you like ‘em old.”

Now hang on.  I know she’s putting on a show, but there’s no need to insult The Boss quite so vehemently.  I find I don’t have to reach deep for outrage.  “Says the woman who likes hip hop.  Or worse, metal.” 

“And just what’s wrong with that?”  Hands on hips.  

“Well, it’s OK if you have no taste.”

“Take that back!”

“Heavy metal: music for sheeple!” I sneer.  “You probably think Black Sabbath is musical genius!”  Are they catching this?

Kailani narrows her eyes.  “Sometimes, you are so ignorant that I really can’t be bothered.”

I leap forward as she turns on her heel, grabbing her braid.  Unfortunately, as she’s in the process of flouncing away, I end up giving it a good yank.

“Owww!  Why you little–”  She no longer has to fake anger.  We’re both too tired, too on edge, too up and down and inside out.  She rushes me, and we grapple.  She’s bigger, but I’m fueled by despair.  All her fault.  All Kailani’s fault for filling my head with impossible dreams!  I manage to get hold of another hunk of hair, and she growls.

“Girls!  Stop this at once!”  Nurse nom-nom is at the door.  Damn!  We left it too late.  She must have missed the last few minutes.    

We spring apart.  

“What is going on?  Maela?  Explain yourself.”

“Kailani’s stupid,” I say sullenly.  “Why do I have to room with her?”

“Right back at you, Minnie Mouse!” Kailani glares.

Nom-nom heaves a deep sigh, shaking her head.  “The pair of you could do with a good spanking.  Or maybe some quiet reflection.”  At that, we settle.  I haven’t been to the Peaceful Place myself, but I’ve seen what Kailani’s like when she comes back.  I sneak a glance at her from underneath my eyelashes and see she’s gone a little green.

“Sorry!  It’s my fault.  I started it.  Sorry, Kailani!” I wail, trying desperately to take attention off her.  

She nods back worriedly.  “Me too.  For sure.  Sorry, Mae!”  She’s wringing her hands, knuckles white, and we hover, barely breathing, waiting for our sentences.

Nom-nom looks from one of us to the other.  “Apologies only go so far, ladies.  Perhaps an early night and some exercises will teach you.”  I hold my breath as she pauses, a knot in my stomach when she continues, “Alright, Maela, grab your journal and into bed.  Kailani,” Nom-nom’s voice hardens.  “Let’s go have a little meditation time.”  

My heart skips, but I scramble into bed when the nurse glares at me, waiting.  “OK, Maela.  You will write ‘Only bad girls fight’ one hundred times.  And then it’s lights out and no dinner.  You know the drill.”

I lower my eyes, slumping.  It’s going to be a long fourteen hours.  “Yes, nurse,” I answer tonelessly.  I want to catch Kai’s eyes, but it would only be worse for the both of us.  So I stare at my little journal, feeling ill, trying to ignore her heavy inhale and the tired straightening of her shoulders, like a soldier going into battle.  

A hand slaps down on the book in front of me, startling me badly enough that I screech; I jerk back to see Nom-nom’s narrow gaze fixed unerringly on me.  “Maela?” she asks, voice deceptively calm.  “Your lines?”

For the next half hour, the only sound that can be heard is the scratch of pen on paper.

Going Fishing

Maddox

Ideally, you should clean and gut a fish as quickly as possible after catching it.  You don’t want to keep it too long in a tiny bucket filled with bloody water, giving it false hope at life.  Really, it’s kinder, in the long run, to get things over with.  So once it has bitten, has taken the bait and stopped writhing on the line, once you have it in your net, you have to do what must be done, sooner rather than later.  Especially if you’re fishing in protected waters, where you’re not supposed to be.  The risk is high in those areas, but that’s where the rarest fish hide.  

There are rules, of course.  No cyanide fishing, no keeping undersized fish, be careful of bycatch, no overfishing, no bottom trawling.  But… well.  When a man is starving, he keeps what he catches and doesn’t look too carefully at how or where the line was cast.

The first step, always, is to bleed the fish out.  The most common way is to make a shallow incision just beneath the… gills.  The gills.  Some fishermen will just snap the head backwards at this point, break the spinal cord.  Then they’ll put the fish aside to use as chum, throwing the bloody pieces back into the water to attract sharks.  Others will thread a rope through its mouth and hang it up, let it bleed out into water.  That helps keep things clean, which is so important, really, because a fish that’s not bled out properly will be so much messier on the cutting board.  And the stress and struggle of death can make its final moments so much more unpleasant.  

Next, you have to make some choices – do you descale it now?  Run the back of the knife from tail to head in long, careful strokes?  Or do you wait until you’ve successfully fileted it?  Because skinning a fish, if done correctly, will also remove the scales.  But some people like to roast the fish with its skin still intact.  It depends on the situation, the desired outcome.  Sometimes, you have to make the decision in the moment.  You can’t always plan these things.  

Now things get a bit messy, even for the most meticulous of fishermen, as it’s time to gut the fish.  Starting from the tail, you run the knife in a straight, smooth line up the body to the head and just open the fish up.  It’s a nasty business, no doubt about it.  You have to keep your focus, be methodical.  It’s important to try to keep your workspace clean, not let it get ahead of you; wipe the counters; rinse the floor occasionally; and have the trashcan close at hand. 

Here’s where I veer a bit from more traditional methods.  Everyone has their own style, really.  Some fishermen will cut away the fins when they descale.  Others will do it just before they chop off the head at the gills.  Me?  I change things up.  Of course, it’s a tried and true method – removing the fins is a classic preparation.  But occasionally I’ll start by running my knife along the rib cage – never through it.  If you’re very careful, you can pull out those bones one by one.  I know many fishermen think that deboning a filet takes too long, that it’s exhausting because it requires infinite patience and precision.  I find, however, that it yields commensurate results – nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that.  Sometimes I’ll trace the knife along its spine, using its backbone as a guide, mirroring the gutting motion from earlier.  You have to be delicate, whatever you do, and be incredibly careful that the fish doesn’t slip off the cutting board, as it becomes progressively more slick over time.  

Being a fisherman isn’t for everyone.  It’s a lonely business, sitting on the boat, by yourself, waiting for hours or days – it gives a man too much time to think.  Too much time to relive, over and over and over, the places he took wrong turns in his life.  The places where he made a choice that his head knew was correct, but deep in his heart he felt was wrong.  Fishing can be surprisingly quiet, good for contemplation, for meditation, for resolution.  But it changes a man.  Draining the life from another living creature, watching it twist and flop before you, mouth wide and gasping… knowing that you could just throw it back, prevent all of its misery.  Well.  The less said about that the better.  There are file cabinets deep in the brain where a fisherman has to lock away the wet, sucking sounds and the wide, glassy eyes.  And once those are carefully organized and indexed, you throw the key away.  

Sometimes, sometimes, you’re tempted to call other people to join you on your boat, because you feel sick to your soul, black mold in your stomach, and you just want to close your eyes and rest.  To have someone else do the necessary work.  You can’t, though.  Your tiny boat only holds one, and if the seas get rough and the waters rise, you don’t want to be responsible for someone else drowning, just because you were lonely.  Just because you were sad.  What a small word for such a gaping, clawing, yawning emotion.  Just like the littlest fish, the littlest words can mean the most – sad, scared, joy… love.  Aren’t those, at their core, so much more than exuberant or devastated or frightened or infatuated?  Their power is in their simplicity.  The weight of love on my shoulders, the weight of brother, of family – those plain, unadorned words are what keep me here, floating on my boat, far from shore on wild, wasteful oceans.

Sighing, I shake my head and look at the gleaming tools on the tray before me.  Handles curved, blades light and wickedly sharp.  The glint of an edge flings me unexpectedly into a memory, of a goddess wearing a swirling, black galaxy, face covered in lace and scorpions, and I have to swallow back a scream.  I knew in that instant.  She walked toward me dressed in the universe, and everything narrowed to one, shimmering second.  Clenching my jaw, resolve settles on me like a shroud, and I repeat in my mind what I told her in that moment.  “We’ll figure things out, but we have to get through tonight first.”  Just get through tonight. 

Coming back to the present, I wrap the memory in tissue paper and pack it in a box far away from what’s about to happen.  I don’t want it bloodied or broken.  Picking up my favorite knife, I turn to face the fish I caught yesterday, flopping and flailing on the table, and exhale slowly.  Haddock or piranha, I don’t yet know.  But I will before I’m done.  I always find out.  And I will fish the seas dry and drain the oceans to sand, if that’s what it takes to find her.

“Now, let’s try this again,” I say, wiping my knife clean.  “Where is she?”  His mouth is wide; his eyes are wild.  He has already lost fins – how long will he twist on the line?  There is a whimper of sound, and I shake my head.

“It’s no use begging,” I warn him casually, but he doesn’t listen.

They never do.

Flashing Clocks

Kailani

I hate Group.  Dozey Dennis is droning on about his ex-wife, and we fucking know already, Dennis, because it’s all you talk about.  That’s probably why she left you, Dennis.  We get it.  Wah wah wah.  You sound like a fucking baby, Dennis.  Ooooh, my wife left my sorry ass.  Boo fucking Hoooo.  This guy cries tears like a crocodile, and the Mod just eats it up.  Christ on a cracker.  Leaning back in my chair, I look around the small circle.  Most people are nodding in sympathy, making noises that are supposed to mean something, and I decide suddenly I’d better say something or I’ll probably go back to the hole.  The hole, the hole, not good for your soul.

Dennis has reached the point of his daily testimony where he starts blaming himself, and I silently mouth along.  “Shouldn’t have worked so much… warned me she’d take the kids… asked me to be more present…”  Blah blah fucking blah.  I told myself today would be the day when I tried, but, “Oh my GOD, Dennis!” I blurt out unintentionally.  “She left because you’re a loser, man!  How many times do you need to go over this?  She’s getting new dick, your kids call him Daddy, and you’ve talked yourself into a long-term care home because her pussy was lined with diamonds or some shit.”

There’s a collective gasp from the group around me, and I groan.  Keep it together, keep it together, don’t go to the hole in this nasty weather.

Maela looks at me reproachfully through her big, freaking cow eyes and says, “Where’s your empathy, Kai?”  

Maela, Maela, teacher’s pet, how many A’s can Maela get? I sing to myself as I narrow my eyes at her.  She had to say it, she had to, she had to, or she won’t sleep for a million years, but I’m mad with a swarm of hornets in my mouth and eyes.

The Mod uses her soft, marshmallow voice that means shit’s about to go down, and I get all jittery because I know, I know, I know…

“Oh, Kailani.  That wasn’t very kind, was it?  It’s been a rough week for you, dear.  Maybe you just need some quiet time.”

“I don’t need quiet time,” I say flatly, forcing the tremble from my voice.

“I think you do, dear,” she replies, little, Chiklet teeth bared in her pretend smile, motioning towards the men behind her.  “I really think you do.”

Shaking my head, I hold up my hands.  “No, no.  I’m fine.  I’ll be good.  I’ll do better.  Sorry, Dennis, Sorry!” I blather, and God bless stupid, cuckolded Dozy Dennis because he mumbles, “It’s okay,” but it’s not okay, because the men have me now and I know what their tight fingers and clammy hands mean, and I pull against them and Maela’s eyes are worried and I can see her brain working, how can she help, how can she help, but it’s too too late, and I’m being dragged out, brain rattling in my head.

◆◆◆

I’m dumped in our room just after midnight, I think, and my limbs won’t work right, so I have to drag myself across the floor to my bed.  Instead of getting into it, I pull my cover and pillow down and crawl underneath where I feel safe.  The bright clock on the wall is flashing the time, over and over, a strange, unsynchronized rhythm that they’ve tried to fix but can’t for some reason, and they won’t replace it.  Sometimes it doesn’t flash at all, just a steady, blinding reminder of the hours, but sometimes it flashes, usually when we're trying to sleep, and it makes a low, strange buzzing sound.  I’m always tired enough to ignore it, but Maela has gone after it until her fingernails are torn and bleeding, the light and noise and flashing waking her every time she tries to drift away.  

They overplayed their hand though, because one night I was awake comforting Maela when the light was painful in the dark room, and just there, just in the corner, I saw the god’s-eye light of the camera turn off.  For half an hour, from 2:30 am–3:00 am, it was gone, but the lights were so bad, that damn clock, Maela’s screams…  I stayed up five nights in a row waiting for that camera to turn off again, and wouldn’t you know it?  The next time the clock was humming its low, electric vibration and Maela was clawing at her eyes and head, click.  It turned off again.  Just for half an hour.  They wouldn’t know that I knew, though, because Maela was screaming, screaming, screaming, and I got in trouble the next day for her noise and back to the hole, back to the hole, where lost souls and dead bodies go for me.

Maela doesn’t have to go to the hole, because Maela’s a good girl.  Maela helps in the library; Maela cooks in the kitchen; Maela tutors the other patients.  But Kailani, Kailani is broken, broken, like a little china doll, face smashed, limbs akimbo; nothing works on poor, broken Kai.  Kailani is a psychopath; Kailani can’t understand human emotion; Kailani needs session after session and needle after needle and pain after pain because otherwise Kailani will kill herself.

Here is a secret nobody knows though.  Maela is broken too.  Shhh.  Don’t tell or they’ll get in and take her and put her in the deep, deep ground where the broken things go.

Maela is all brittle bird bones; her smile is a cracked oil painting, little fractures running out in all directions; and while I’m the chaos of the day, Maela is the chaos of the night, her body rigid with the effort of not flying completely to pieces.

She can’t have a bad night tonight though, she can’t, because the clock is flashing, and my limbs won’t work so I can’t wrestle her down from the wall and keep her from hurting herself, breaking her fingers on the thin wire of the flashing clock.  I can’t make my body work; I can’t leave my home beneath the bed, or they’ll find me and take me back to the hole, and it was wet today; I thought I would drown, violently shivering as the water rose… moaning quietly, I try to breathe through the panic, but the clock won’t.  Stop.  flashing.

Maela’s hands are over her ears and her pillow is over her eyes and her body is stretched to tendons snapping and bones cracking, but I know she can hear it; I know she can, and I whisper, “Maela, Maela, Maela…” and she hears me, for once she hears me, and she slides off her bed and slithers along the ground to my cave, my safe cave, and we pull the blankets over our heads like a fort from when we were children, but now we’re the monsters beneath the bed.

“You’re going to have to scream, or they’ll wonder and come looking,” I whisper noiselessly against her ear, and she laughs her crazy, lightning-bolt laugh, the manic notes like piano keys being smashed all at once, and she says, “I can scream.  I can SCREAM.”  And she lets loose a howl like a banshee, raising the hairs on the back of my neck because that scream means death; it’s rotting flesh and snapping bones and the sharp slice of the Reaper’s blade; and he’s coming for us, I know he is, he’ll find us, he’ll find us if she keeps screaming like that, but the clock is flashing; it’s flashing and…

The camera light clicks off.  She smiles at me, a rictus grin, through her soul-eating mouth, open wide enough to swallow nightmares and dreams, but she’s crying, and I know why, because they’ll send me back tomorrow; they will, they will, they will; they’ll send me down, down to the blackness, this time for who knows how long, because I’m not supposed to hit Maela; and I’m crying too, because I don’t want to, but I have to if we want our time.  But we’re only left alone if we’re hurting each other.  They only ignore us when we’re rabid animals, clawing and biting and scratching, because no one tells secrets when their heads are inside the lion’s mouth.  No one whispers hopes and dreams into a poisoned cup.  Push-pull, push-pull, and we have to balance the seesaw, so I shove her out from our safe space, and I scream so they hear me, “Shut up, SHUT up, SHUT UP!”  And I punch her face as hard as I can and her skin folds in like crumpled paper and I think this time I hurt her, I hurt her, but they have to see it in the morning, and she’s smiling and silent and covered in blood, and the camera light is still off.  They can’t know about us, so we have to be vipers snapping at each other, flashing fangs and dripping venom.

In the flashing and the buzzing and an occasional, bright, crazed scream from Maela that always makes me jump, we whisper and whisper and whisper while she bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.  

Because here is the real secret, the real secret of secrets.  We’re going to leave this place.

In the morning, the Nurse Maela hates comes in, face heavy with disappointment, and she shakes her head.  “Oh, Kailani,” she says sadly.  But her sadness is poison.  Her sadness is toxic, and she bites quickly.  You shouldn’t trust sadness here.  It leads down the rabbit hole to the dark places underground where the caterpillars have teeth like sharks and the floating smile is pain and more pain.  “Oh, Kailani.  Take Maela to medical,” she says to the men behind her, Cheshire cat, all purr and promise, and Maela quakes; she shivers; she shakes, because Maela does not like medical.  And she’s very brave, very, very brave, and she goes like a good girl; but I am not brave and I am not good and I’m vibrating like their electricity is coursing through me in its tiny bolts, and the nurse walks forward, bemused, and grabs a strand of my hair.

“Hmmmm…” she murmurs thoughtfully.  “Solitary isn’t working, not really.  Maybe something else will.  Bring the scissors!” she calls to the hallway, yanking my face towards hers by my braids.  

And now I’m screaming, mouth wide enough to eat the world, screams ripping out my lungs and heart and cracking my ribs, now I’m screaming like Maela because they’ve found my flashing clock; they’ve found it; and it takes four men to hold me down as they take another piece another piece another piece.

We may not get out in time.

Stepping Up

Maela

I touch my fingertips to my lip, remembering the warm gush of blood.  Kailani walloped me good and proper.  I’m not sure she needed to be quite so convincing, and I half suspect that she took the opportunity to get her own back.  Not that I blame her, I think hastily.  I’d be mad at me too.  I really shouldn’t chastise her, not in public.  But sometimes… sometimes the lure of a few hours’ sleep is too strong.  I can’t remember the eureka moment, when I first realized that, if I joined in the group condemnation, all good little Maoists together, the camera didn’t buzz and flicker, just glowed silently and steadily.  And sometimes, if I was really pious, the nurses changed one pill for another, a nice one that made me feel warm and fuzzy.  I used to be good at seeing patterns; it’s what a scholar is trained to do, after all.  Cause and effect.  Push button: get peanut.  Most of the time, I can resist.  But not all the time.  

Thankfully, the cut’s healing nicely, and the swelling’s almost gone.  Really, you’d just think that my lip had got a little chapped.  But Kailani… Kailani will pay the price for our stolen whispers for years to come.  I shudder, thinking of how I’d come into our room to find her sitting in a daze on her bed, head shorn, her beautiful hair all gone.  They’d taken a part of her soul, and they hadn’t been gentle about it.  A hack job, literally.  She must have fought back.  I went over and put my arms around her, and she shuddered out a sigh and laid her head upon my shoulder.  Hair is sacred, she’d told me, and should only be touched with good intentions.  But the nurses hadn’t cared; they’d infected her with malevolent energy; I could feel it pulsing out of her, dark and debilitating.  

I think that was the moment I truly committed to our plan, the doctors and their dire predictions be damned.  Mt. Ida was not a healing haven, not if they could commit such sacrilege.  Oh, Kailani and I had been whispering, in those moments when everything aligned – when both of us were compos mentis and the nurses were on a shift change, or one of us was prepared to bite – saying “wouldn’t it be nice” and “when”.  Little stories to keep us going.  We’d get an apartment and, yes, she did like cats and a coffee mocha was a very fine drink.

She wanted to return to the States; I was arguing for London; neither of us would say why, not even with the camera off.  But I knew the reason behind the silence, for what if our only friend confirmed our deepest fear?  Somehow, as long as Kailani didn’t say anything, the guys still existed.  Oh, I knew they didn’t, not really, but hearing her say so would have destroyed me.  I could say it; Dr. Beaufort could say it; Ms. Garner could say it; but never Kailani.  Not her.

I sigh, looking around the library and finding comfort in the homely space; it’s a small room, nothing special, probably belonged to the first footman, but the walls are now lined with shelves, and those shelves are now lined with books.  A motley assortment: books on gardening jumbled up against romance novels, the First World War against science fiction, well-thumbed paperbacks and hardbacks just for show.  They must have come in a job-lot.  But they’re here, and that’s all that matters.  They are my sanity.  It’s a precious commodity and in very short supply.

I’m on duty today; I’ve been promoted to assistant librarian.  I’m also a learning mentor in art class, which is really funny, because I can barely draw stick figures.  But I’m good at giving encouragement.  Apparently.  And I set a good example, although, I grimace, I must not be doing a very good job here, because the books are out of order.  Again.  Honestly!  I mean: I know the other patients can’t help being disorganized – they’re each on their own journey towards recovery – but you’d think that the other librarians would make an effort to put the books back where they’re supposed to go.  I implemented a proper system; it’s not rocket science, people!  I can feel myself getting upset and take a deep breath.  Calm, calm.  In and out.  This is not a big deal.  I can fix it.  No muss, no mess, no muddle, clear head.

I start to tidy up.  I know, from my work in Group, that my need for order in my surroundings is a manifestation of my need for order in my mind, a wistful search for that lost part of me, intelligent and insightful, which once made me so proud.  I sigh again, all the way down to my soft soles, and a half-remembered fragment stirs in my brain: “It is not the winning, but the taking part; it is not the triumph, but the struggle.  The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.”  I stop suddenly, looking out of the window across the lawn, where a blackbird is busy among the hellebores.  It hops through the grass, looking for a grub, then pauses, swiveling bright eyes towards me – rather accusingly, I think.  “And you, Maela?  Are you fighting well?” a little voice seems to pipe.  I flush.  “Be quiet,” I say, “I get enough of that in Group,” and the bird goes back to looking for worms.  But I sit down, pensive, and give my nails a quick chew.          

My life is ruled by fear.  Fear of punishment, of losing control, of the now; fear of memories of failure – and happiness – of the then; fear of loss, of obliteration, of the time to come.  This fear isn’t a lightning bolt, a twisting knife in the pit of your stomach; no, this is the fear that lives in the wrinkle in your brow, the lines of tension round your eyes, the rote prayers silently offered to the waiting universe.  And suddenly my soul revolts.  

“So you’re brain-damaged, Maela,” I mutter.  “Big deal.  Are you going to let that define you?  You may never regain complete function.  You may never be who and what you were before.  But you can still make a life for yourself.  You still exist, you big baby!  You’re still here!”  I swipe at my eyes, beyond furious as I march around the room, putting books back in place.  How easily I’d caved!  So cravenly, so completely!  Just accepted my new limitations, feeling desperately sorry for myself all the while.  Ms. Garner was right: poor little Maela!  Always the victim, always to be pitied, waiting for the knight and charger.  Even now, even with everything that’s happened, a lost little part of me has hoped beyond hope for a deus ex machina. 

I twirl my braid around my index finger, combing the ends of the strands.  If we’re serious about getting out of here, we need a plan, a proper plan.  Plotting to ambush the nurse and tie her up with the bedsheets is all very satisfying but highly unlikely to end in success.  As is setting off a fire alarm; we don’t even know where one is.  Dismantling the camera and sneaking away in the middle of the night?  Possibly, but someone would undoubtedly come running if we tried.  Although, I reason, we could take advantage of a shift change.  Or I could smack Kailani.  See how she likes it.  No, Maela!  Behave!  I still, catching my bottom lip between my teeth.  Behave – that might work.  I’m the good girl, after all.  The good girl.  That’s it, isn’t it?  That’s all I need to do.  I smile, feeling a small spark light deep in my stomach, beginning to warm the cold places.  Maela, you idiot!  You’re trusted now, aren’t you?  A senior patient?  You could get lost again, going to the kitchens.  Or the library.  Or bringing supplies to art class.  Take the scenic route.  Not too often, not so they’d get suspicious.  Just enough to get a better feel for the place.  And if you’re going to be taking tours around on Funders’ Day, you’ll need to get to know its general layout, its history, where a priest hole might be, say, or some forgotten passageway.  You wouldn’t want to disappoint the guests.  You’ll need to have stories for them.  Ghost stories, for example.  Who doesn’t like a good Victorian haunting?  Mt. Ida is so old, it surely must have a ghost or two.  A fat friar or a white lady.  And ghosts love crypts and dusty rooms and empty battlements, don’t they, where two girls might hide and slip away.  I bet Mrs. Riggins would know all about any ghosts.  I can ask her.  And while I go about my days, demurely trailing through the halls, I can look.  I can see.  Where the orderlies gather.  Where a camera might be.  I can be patient; I can watch; I can learn.  Save both of us.  

A noise at the door makes me start.  The handle’s turning, and I quickly duck behind a bookshelf.  I don’t need anyone asking any questions, not about my no doubt red eyes nor about the goofy grin I can feel spreading across my face.  Whoever is there I hope doesn’t take too long.  Pick a book, any book, and go!  I need to be alone, to think, to plan.  My nose twitches, and I give it a good pinch.  Ugh, someone’s wearing cheap body spray, a sort of fruit basket mixed with Windolene bouquet.  I see a white shoe appear between two books.  Damn!  One of the nurses.  If she catches me crouched on the floor, I’ll definitely get in trouble.  And I need to be the golden girl.

“Hmm, what am I in the mood for?”  I can hear the sound of a book sliding along a shelf, rustling pages, a soft tutting, and my heart sinks.  Damn!  A browser.     

“Murder mystery?” another voice suggests.  Double damn!  There are two of them.

“In this place?  No, thanks.  I’m on duty tonight in the east wing.”

“Lucky you!  I’m with the garden-variety crazies.”

“Not really.  They’re a little too well-behaved, if you know what I mean.  I can never tell what’s going on behind those wide-eyed stares.  And I suppose I feel sorry for them.”

“Just think about where they’d be if Gaia hadn’t stepped in.  Living on druggie estates or the streets…  Here, at least, they’re looked after.  And they have a purpose; they’re part of something greater.  And someday, some of them might be very grateful to have been given such an advantage.”

“If we can work out the process.  We can demethylate cytosine, but adenine is proving trickier.  And we still don’t know which base pairs to target.  We’re not even sure we’ve isolated all the genes involved.”

“Which is why this research is so important.  And Phos and the others are making headway.”

“We can compare the DNA sequences easily enough, but conducting the tests, turning the genes on and off and then linking each to a specific trait will take years.”

“We’re closer than you think.  After all, the research has been going on for years already.  And we’ve had some successes.  We just need to understand how to replicate them.”

“The Holy Grail.”

“In the interim, there’s the compound.”

“Such as it is.”

“My, my, who’s in a pessimistic mood today?”

“Oh, don’t mind me.  Steve was being an absolute ass last night, and I’m feeling cross with the world.  Maybe I will take a murder mystery.  Might give me some tips on how to dispose of the body, the way I’m feeling.”

There’s the sound of laughter, and then the door opening and closing and footsteps disappearing down the hall.  I stay crouched for a moment, mind racing.  There’s no more time to waste.  Whatever is going on, whatever weird experiments they’re conducting, I don’t want to be a part of.  I don’t care if they’re on the verge of discovering a panacea.  Kailani and I need to get out of here, and the sooner the better.

Jelly Roll

Kailani

Kailani is really going to try today, I think, running my hand reflexively over my head before jerking it down to my side.  I mean, I am going to try.  There is no volcano inside me.  And there isn’t.  Not today, anyway.  After the last… incident… they changed the course of my medicine, and I’ve felt… I don’t know.  Less aggressive, maybe.  Well, not exactly.  The anger is still there, deep below the surface, but behind a pane of glass.  I can see it, sense it, but I can’t feel it.  So I have high hopes for today, unless Dennis is there.  

Think positive, Kai.  You haven’t seen him in over a week.  You’ve made it through Group three times without losing your shit.  You are improving.  You are healing.  You are a placid fucking Goddess with windowpane emotions.  You can do this.    

As it turns out, I cannot do this.  I know it from the second I walk into Group and see the Mod’s face.  Enid is smiling her soft, sweet smile, and she’s wearing her red glasses today, which means shit is about to go down.  She thinks she’s a blank book, an empty wall, but even she lets things slip sometimes, and I’ve learned that red-glasses days are for when she’s feeling particularly happy.  And nothing, nothing, makes Enid happier than Kailani losing her fucking mind.

Don’t talk about yourself in the third person, I have to remind myself.  Bad habits, bad habits.  I’m sure some expert would tell me it’s a “trauma response” to whatever is happening to me here, but every day I drift a little further from knowing who I am, knowing who “Kailani” actually is, and other than The Hole, it’s the only thing that really scares me here.  Oh Kailani, Kai, you’re a liar, you lie!  Every single fucking thing scares you here.  And it’s true.  Even the paint on the walls seems poisonous.  

But I smile back with extra sugar and smirk a little when I see her face tighten.  Ahhhh.  Enid doesn’t want Kai syrupy today.  She doesn’t want me jelly roll.  But Kai’s going to be cake and ice cream and hot fudge and fucking whipped cream today.  So I glide smoothly, and I sit carefully and quietly, and I look at her with puppy-dog eyes.  

“Hello, Enid!  Kailani reporting for duty!”  My voice is calm; my voice is tranquil lakes; and Enid’s jaw clenches.  

“Kailani, how lovely to see you.  And how… unexpectedly happy, given… recent experiences.”

I still, a deer in the hunter’s sight, and force my hand not to drift back to my scalp.  Point, Enid.  But the anger is still trapped beneath, so it is easier to force the smile.

“Thank you, Enid.”  I reply inanely, thanking her for nothing, not really, but the words seem right, and so often here, it just matters what seems and not what is.  

Her lips press together in a thin line, and I am about to relax, when they suddenly stretch into a full, real smile.  “Ah.  Dennis.  How nice to see you!  We’ve been missing you, haven’t we, Group?”

And in the time it takes to blink, my anger has crashed through the windowpane barrier, bubbling up inside me like lava.  Fucking, fucking Dennis, I think, but I refuse, I refuse to lose anymore.  The other three in Group – I never bother to learn names, as most people float in and out like clouds – straighten up, little smiles of vicious glee on their faces.  When Dennis and Kai are here together, no one else ever gets in trouble.  But not today, fuckers!  Today, Kai is cupcakes and sunshine and dead fucking unicorns.  Why do dead unicorns make me happy?  Something is wrong in my brain…  But I don’t have time to examine things, because everyone has fallen silent and is looking at me expectantly, which usually means that I’ve missed something important while I’m lost in the wilds of my mind.   

Okay, Kai.  Get your shit together.   Turning, I face stupid fucking Dennis with the kind of smile you reserve for very small children or very cute pets, and I take the bull by the horns.  “Hey, Dennis!  Kailan… I mean… I’m happy to see you.  I’ve been worried.  About you.  So… hello.”  The words are acid corroding my tongue, choking my throat, but I get them out and am rewarded by the angry flare of Enid’s nostrils and the surprised widening of Dennis’s eyes.  Well fuck me sideways.  Look at me being master-level nice.  And I’m feeling good.  Amazing, really, the anger retreating like waves from the shore, pulling back all at once and leaving the entire coastline empty.  I should have known.  I should.  Have.  Known.  I grew up near the coast.  I know the signs of a tsunami.  When the water retreats all at once, you run the fuck away.  Run away, Kai, run AWAY, the little voice warns.

But I’m feeling confident, King confident, so I nudge the seat beside me toward Denis and motion to him to sit.  Enid is spinning out – she doesn’t know this version of Kailani, and for a brief second, I’m offended, because I can be nice.  But then I remember that last time Dennis and I were in Group together I punched his face ‘til two Orderlies pulled me off and he was left with a black eye and split lip.  Come to think of it, maybe that’s why Dennis has been missing for a week…  Still, the thought makes me smile, maybe my first real smile in months – Dennis sitting, crying on the floor, holding his bloody, quivering lip and looking up at me through confused eyes.  Oh shit.  That was fucking hilarious.

My smile almost, almost becomes a laugh at the memory, and I have to swallow it down.  Even I can’t keep the tremulous quaver from my voice, though.  

“How are you, Dennis?” I ask solicitously.  “And, before you answer, I want to apologize.”  Yes, Kai, yes.  This is the right thing.  Enid is angry, frustrated.  Be good.  Be Maela.  Then get the dreaming colors.  “I was unforgivable last time we were together.  Un. For. Givable.  But I hope you can see it in your heart to give me another chance.  It was very wrong of me.  Very, very wrong.”  I want to continue, but the shaking in my voice, which could initially be mistaken for sincerity, is fast dissolving into clear amusement, so I stop.

Dennis is off kilter, looking at me through careful eyes.  “I… I suppose we all make mistakes.”  There’s a pause, a deep breath, and then, “Kai, I forgive you.”

Oh, DON’T call me KAI, you FUCK!  The tidal-bore anger rolls back in unexpectedly in the memory of soft almond eyes and promises of forever, my name a prayer on sharp lips, words of love whispered in the shadow of a girl hanging off a cross, and it takes everything in me to clench my teeth together to keep from screaming.  Don’t think his name!  Don’t think it!  They’ll take it from you.  Just bury it below.  Please, Kailani.  Don’t think his name.  The little worms will burrow deep to find him.

Enid fills the silence.  “Dennis, why don’t you begin today?”

No, no, no!  I’m not ready for Dennis to begin.  I need to get back under control, bury the anger.  I can’t lose more than I’ve lost.  The cracks are all over my skin, long, jagged lines showing where I’m breaking apart.  No one can see them but me, and sometimes Maela, late at night, in the secret hours.  Pretty soon they’ll be obvious to everyone though.  If I go back in The Hole, I won’t come out again.  Not this time.  Kailani needs to get her shit together, the little voice in my head observes quietly.  She’s losing it.  I really, really need one of the numpties to go first, but they never do.  If Dennis is in Group, it’s either me or him, and… now that I think about it, I’ve never heard anyone else speak.  Not really.  I’m usually being kicked out, or dragged away, by the time someone else gets a turn.  The most they do usually is gasp or say “Oh, Kailani” in their wobbly voices, echoes of Enid’s more disappointed tones.  It’s what’s expected, and you get in trouble if you don’t.  Even Maela… but she has to.  We both have to do terrible things… terrible, terrible things to each other to stay alive and sane in this place.  Kailani doesn’t like to though, the voice in my head says gently, and I agree with it.  I don’t like to.  And neither does Maela.

Dennis has started, and my wandering thoughts have given me enough time to settle the slish-slosh of anger in my stomach.  His whiny tone crawls along my skin, a hundred thousand ants marching along my arms, up my shoulders, and burrowing inside my ears.  I can almost feel them wiggling down my ear canals, pushing inside my skull, and I know the cracks are starting to show.  

“Shouldn’t have worked so much… warned me she’d take the kids… asked me to be more present…”  

It’s the same every damn time.  I mouth along with him, staring at my hands, willing myself to stay quiet.  It takes every ounce of strength within me to not let the banshee out, but I lock the screams inside and let him continue.  I do six-stage breathing; I count the teeth in my mouth with my tongue, the scuffs on the floor, the breaths in the room.  I go deeper and deeper into the shadows of my mind, where my childhood memories are boxed and labeled, and look for something safe to distract me.  A faint echo of a song lingers there in a mother’s sweet voice, and I sing along silently, “Ah eh ee oh ew, heh kay la mu nu, pe ve ameka okina…”

“She… uh… took… the… um… kids… I… worked too much?”

Something about the way Dennis trails off attracts my attention, and I look up from my mangled nails to risk a glance around the group.  Dennis is looking towards Enid, almost as if for guidance, but everyone else is staring at me.  The Mod, the numpties, the blue-clothed orderlies in the corner… everyone.  And I realize, listening to him searching for words, that I’ve never lasted this long.  Long enough for Dennis to run out of words.  Long enough for him to… start over?  Why would he start over?  Isn’t it… shouldn’t it be someone else’s turn?  But the iron is in me now, and I won’t break.  The Mod is watching, watching with hawk-like eyes.  Something is happening that she doesn’t like.  And I’ve missed it, lost in the Hawaiian alphabet.  I shouldn’t have gone so far away.

“Do you have anything to say, Kailani?” Enid asks softly, and I know that I’m in trouble.

“Yes…”  My words are hesitant, but I know if I don’t answer, something will happen.  So.  What would Maela do?  I inject as much sincerity into my voice as possible and focus on speaking to him like one would a sad toddler.  “Dennis.”  Everyone inhales together, holding their breaths, because we’ve been down this road before, time and again.  Softer, Kai, softer.  Marshmallow clouds of softness.  “That… must have been… very difficult for you.”  I can almost taste the confusion in the room.  Kailani has gone off script.  Kailani is driving the train off the tracks.  The voice in my head is not being helpful.  “What a loss.  Especially when you were working so hard to support them.”

Dennis nods in agreement, despite himself.  “Yes.  Yes!  Kai, exactly.”

Gathering steam, I gain confidence, especially as Enid doesn’t interrupt.  “You were just doing your best.  And no one appreciated you.”

He sighs sadly.  “No one did appreciate me.  You’re right, Kai.”

Every time he says “Kai” it feels like tiny cactus pricks of pain, feathers lined with razors dragging on my skin, but I do my best to ignore it, because I’m feeling good now.  I’m feeling bold.  “And to take the children.  Your children.  To take them from you when you did nothing wrong!  You put in so many hours at… I’m sorry, Dennis, can you remind me?  My head…”  I wave my hand vaguely toward my temple but DO NOT touch your head! my little voice screams at me, alarmed, and I quickly drop my hands to my lap.

He smiles slightly, straightening up, and I realize that somehow I’ve made a grave tactical error.  “I’m happy to, Kai.  I worked at GameStop.  28 hours a week!  Linda didn’t understand.  She never understood.  I had to test the new games.  It was part of my job.  So between the 28 hours at work, and then four or five hours a night of gaming, I couldn’t help.  I’m the man of the house!  I’m not changing diapers!”  He looks at me for sympathy.  Enid’s observing carefully with a knowing smirk, and I’m desperately trying to figure out how not to give the asshat in front of me a black eye to match the one that’s currently fading on his face.  Please, Kai, please.  They’re doing this on purpose.  Just breathe.

“Kailani?” Enid prompts, voice saccharine.  

“Dennis…” my voice cracks, and I have to clear my throat to try again.  The orderlies in the corner rock forward into ready positions; the Mod is baring her square, white teeth in a mockery of a smile.  Fuck this.  Bad choice, Kailani!  The voice tried.  It really did try.   

“Dennis,” I start again, then reach out and take his hands for good measure.  The amount of satisfaction I get from his initial jerking back from my movement is immeasurable.  “You are… you are an aggressively average human being.”  Enid starts shaking her head in disappointment, but I plow ahead, ignoring her concerns, voice still sweet and solicitous.  “Actually, aggressively average is a compliment for someone like you.  You are… by choice, I assume… an oxygen thief, and the planet is already in peril.  Global warming, climate change, the rainforests are burning.  Microplastics are in our food for the first time.  And a flesh-suit like yourself throws off the delicate balance in our already stressed ecosystem.  I say this, not to hurt you, but to encourage you to be worthy of some small amount of the oxygen you consume on a daily basis.  Do better.”

Releasing his hands, I sit back in satisfaction.  I didn’t hit anyone.  No one is bleeding on the floor.  I didn’t even leave my seat.  That has to be counted as an improvement.  But Enid cocks her head like a vulture, stretching her neck, and sighs.  Don’t twitch that finger.  Don’t you fucking twitch that finger, I think.  Kailani behaved.  Kailani played by the rules.  But despite being the absolute fucking best version of myself for the entire Group session, I see Enid’s pointer finger raise in a subtle motion, and the orderlies move forward as one.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!  I was nice!!!”  The Mod is shaking her head, and Dennis starts laughing beside me, a tiny, high-pitched giggle that punches its way out of his throat. 

“Nice?” he asks.  “Nice?  In what world?”

“In the world where next time I see you I’m going to rip your trachea out with my teeth, Fuckstick!” I snap and pull away from the orderlies as they grab me.

“The Peaceful Place?” the larger one asks, but Enid shakes her head.

“No.  Not today.  Today let’s go to Estie, please.  Kailani has shown some growth, and that should be rewarded.  After all, we can’t send her to The Peaceful Place for every single infraction.”  Her voice is amused, ringing with laughter. “Could you imagine?”  And she locks eyes with me, red-rimmed glasses glinting in the light, a cruel, eager edge in her words.  “Could you imagine?”  

And I fucking can.  I can, because it feels like I’ve spent half my life in their Peaceful Place.  I’d rather swim in the River Styx than head back into the hole, and Estie isn’t as bad as it could have been – I can withstand the amount of pain I’ll face with her – but God damn I hate fucking unicorns.

Damn Unicorns

Kailani

Staring at the purple, glitter ceiling, I try desperately to remember how to count to ten.  I’m getting stuck on five, which seems to be a ridiculous number to stumble over, but every time I hit FIVE BIG fat PIGS, my brain resets and tumbles back down to one.  We didn’t sing FIVE GOLden RINGS at Christmas growing up – I learned the Hawaiian Days of Christmas.  Kids made fun of me at school for singing about… fuck!  Why couldn’t I get stuck on a lucky number, like… shit.  FIVE BIG fat PIGS!  God damn it.

“Now Kailani, dear.  Enid says you’ve had a rough morning, hmmm?”  The spots on the ceiling combine into a swirling galaxy of prismatic rainbows.  “We’re back to square one, somehow.”

Estie is soft, strong limbs, curved stomach, ample bosom… she’s a mother, through and through.  And she’ll gather you in her arms, close to her, and hold you while you’re shaking in pain, while your skin trembles, little ripples running down, crooning a sweet song, telling you how brave you’ve been.  But she’ll also push the button that sends the little burning embers of electricity running over your screaming nerves, so there’s that.  There is always that.

“Can you remind me what the steps are?  Let’s just start with the first one.”

Can Kailani remind her what the steps are?  Kailani can’t even count past five!  The voice in my head is scrambling, trying to get some traction.  But… FIVE BIG fat PIGS!  

“Task analysis.”

“That’s right!”  Her voice lights up with approval, and despite my better judgment, I feel a small frisson of pride.  I got one right.  Oh, Kailani.  No.  Don’t let them do this.

“Shall we try for two?  You’re doing so well today!”

“Chaining?”  I think that’s correct.  I’m almost positive.  

“Oh, Kai!  Yes!  Terrific!  Let’s just go ahead and address those two today, shall we?  No need to overwhelm you.”

Thank God for small mercies, I think, feeling more confident.  I can handle two.  Two is a number I know.  TWO coconuts and one myNAH BIRD in ONE paPAYah TREE.  Why the fuck did he give her birds anyway?  Crap.  Focus, Kailani.  

“Here we go!” she says happily, and I take a deep breath.  “Let’s begin by identifying the task.”

“Be nicer to the absolute fuckstain of a human being Dennis…  Ahhhhhhhhhh!  God fucking damn it!”  My voice cracks on the last word, and tears spill down my face.  The first one is always the worst.  It wakes up the nerve endings and lights them on fire.  I’m already shivering in pain.  This does not bode well for what’s to come.

Estie sighs, disappointed.  “Work with me here, Kai.  Despite appearances, I don’t actually like pressing this button.  Conditioning is my least favorite thing to do.” 

I can’t see her face, can only hear her voice, but I’ve seen that God damned button, and it’s huge and bright red, like something from a cartoon, so I’m pretty freaking sure she does like to press it.  Otherwise, it would be something small and discreet that doesn’t make my skin crawl the second I walk into her room.  Overhead, rainbow unicorns run through the glitching colors, and I feel nauseous.  

“A reminder, dear, that I start on a three with you now.  Let’s not make the mistake of getting up to ten again, shall we?  Remember last time?”  

And I do, so violently that I turn my head to the side and lose the little food I’ve had today.  But Estie doesn’t care.  The rooms all have drains in the floor.  Everything is made to be washed down and sanitized with ease.  I try hard not to focus on the thought.

“Just look up at the ceiling, dear.  Focus on the images – we specifically chose calming and cheerful scenes to help our behavior modification patients as much as possible with leveling their emotions.  We consulted with top psychologists to pick the perfect imagery.”

And maybe they did.  Her voice rings true on the last line.  I believe they’ve put effort, or at least money, into their B.M. program.  The seat I’m strapped in is soft, a similar shape to a dentist chair, but with restraints at the wrists and feet, and a larger, more serious one across the chest.  I thought that one was unnecessary, until the last time I was here.  No.  No thinking of that.  No last times, no next times.  Just nows.  The room is large, and dark, like a small theater, and overhead is an enormous screen set into the ceiling, dominating my view.  There is nothing else within my periphery – it all just fades to black on the edges, so you feel like you’re staring up into the infinite abyss, and in some ways, I am.  Because time has no meaning here with Estie.  There’s no way to hold a continuous thought, no way to count myself into oblivion.  She has a talent for knowing when I’m “shirking the work”, as she calls it, and if she catches me drifting, she doesn’t hesitate to jolt me back to awareness.  I don’t know why I get rainbows and unicorns.  I’d kill for something else, anything else, really.  A beach scene, an ocean view, a lake, a forest, kittens romping… I don’t fucking care.  Just something.  But day after day, session after session, it’s the same images over and over.  Enough that I’ve found the pattern in the moving rainbows, like hearing the loop point on white noise, and it’s slowly driving me insane.  The unicorns start cheerful and romping, but soon their teeth show, sharpened and dripping with blood, and their bodies darken and hollow out until they’re nightmare creatures made of black cloud and gleaming bone, with wild, red-rimmed eyes.  Estie assures me that they don’t, that my mind is playing tricks on me, but there have been times I’ve felt liquid fall from the ceiling above, burning acid holes into my arms.

“Task analysis, please, Kailani.”

“Um… to engage in consistent empathy for others.”  I feel a tiny current tickle my skin and rush out the rest of the words.  “To acknowledge others’ emotions as valid expressions and to realize that my own are inconsistent with normal levels of human reactions.  The end goal is to tamp down sociopathic tendencies and participate within the accepted norms of feeling remorse and guilt, as well as sympathy.”  I recite the list blandly, like describing various shades of white paint.  Ecru, vanilla, eggshell, murderous rampage…

“Oh, Kai!  Well done!  That’s actually really good for today.”  

Don’t feel proud, don’t feel proud, but I can’t help it.  I take a deep breath and let it out shakily.  

“Let’s do your mantra before starting work on your chain!”

“I can absolutely fight against my nature.  I am stronger than my base emotions.  I have it in me to be calm and kind.  I am able to stay neutral, should I desire it.  All my choices are my own.  Lead with empathy.”

Estie’s soft hand strokes my sweaty forehead gently.  “I’m really, really impressed with you today, Kailani.  I’m sorry about that last little jolt, but needs must, hmm?  Would you like some pain medication?”  I sense more than see her check her watch.  “It won’t take more than a couple minutes to set in, and then we can get to work on your chaining?”

She asks like I have a choice, but I don’t.  Not really.  She’ll pry my mouth open with pliers to make me take my medicine, but I try anyway.

“I’m okay, Estie.  I can do it without, I think.”  My voice trembles, shaky and scared.

“You don’t have to be brave with me, kiddo!  Let’s get you feeling better.” 

The thing is, I never feel better when they dose me, but she pinches my nose until I’m seeing spots and then pops the meds in as soon as I open my mouth, gasping like a fish.

“There we go!  Down the hatch!”  She’s cheerful, a little trill in her voice.  Checking her watch again, Estie sets a little timer somewhere to my side, a steady metronome of a tick-tick-tick.  “Just try to relax now, and we’ll get back to it in a couple of minutes.  Really, you should be so pleased with yourself.”

I try to settle back, try to stay calm, but the ticking feels like pinpricks on my skin, and the unicorns are losing their color on the glitching ceiling.  It keeps flickering, out of sync with the regular clicking of the timer beside me, and the rainbows are more staticky lines and color blocks than actual images.  It makes me nervous, tension cording my muscles into tight ropes of anxiety.  I want to press my eyes closed, focus on my breathing and the relief of blackness behind my eyelids, but Estie always knows, so I stay fixated on the ceiling until I want to scream.  

“Alright!  It should have kicked in.  You feeling any better?” she asks, and I want to answer, I do, but I can’t.  For some reason my mouth won’t work, my tongue feeling heavy and numb in my mouth.  “Let’s start.  What’s the first skill in your chain?”

Silence.  Silence.  Oh gods, gods, please say something, Kai.  Please.  You know this.

“Kailani?”  There’s an edge to her tone that I recognize.  “The first skill?”

And Christ, I want to answer for once.  I’m desperate to answer.  I was doing so well today, all things considered.  Just open your mouth and answer, Kai.  Jesus fucking Christ.  Please, please, please just say something.

Estie’s words are laced with disappointment.  “Oh dear.  I thought we’d moved beyond this.  I thought you were going to co-operate today.  Kailani, when will you understand that I can’t help you if you don’t want to help yourself?”

But I do.  I do want to help myself here.  All I want to do is answer her question, but my mouth… won’t… work.

She sighs, and I hear her move forward.  Resting her hand on me, she moves a thumb in a gentle, reassuring motion across my forehead and whispers quietly, “Please, Kailani.  Please try to work with me here.  I don’t want to have to condition you today.  All I’m asking is for the first skill.  You can do that for me, can’t you?”

But I can’t.  I honestly can’t, though I’m trying with every ounce of will in my body to form words.  

“You said it yourself, dear.  All your choices are your own.  Please don’t choose to do this.  Don’t do this to yourself.  It’s not good for you.”

Things are getting muddled in my mind now.  Why am I doing this to myself?  All my choices are my own.  I said it myself.  I said it.  No one else.  Just open your mouth, Kailani, my little voice whispers.  Focus and open your mouth.    

“I’ll help you, shall I?” Estie asks and moves silently away.  And no.  NO.  I don’t want her help, but she gives it to me anyway, white lightning pain coursing through me so brightly that I can’t see the ceiling overhead anymore; I can’t see the unicorns or rainbows or glitter.  Pain so deep and broad and unending that I float from my body for a moment, looking down at myself, and I become that voice in my head, separate and distinct.  Oh Kailani, I say, if only you had cooperated.  The voice sounds like me, and like Estie, and I can’t tell who is speaking.  I just watch the poor girl below me with the shaved head and shaky limbs vibrate against the soft black of the chair.  

“Think before you speak!” the seizing forces out, the words garbled and strangled, but identifiable, and her body immediately relaxes.  A round, motherly woman rushes forward from the back of the room and carefully undoes the leather straps, then pulls the girl’s unresisting body to her own.  

“Oh, dear girl, dear girl.  Well done.  Just answer earlier next time, and we won’t have to go through that unpleasantness.  We’ll leave it there today, shall we?  Just the first skill in the chain.  Think before you speak.  Just the first link.”  

I’m still floating, looking down at the scene, but as the girl below me slackens into the embrace of the woman, I can feel myself being sucked back into her broken and bruised walking corpse.  

Think before you speak.  I can’t tell if I’m whispering them out loud or thinking them to myself, but the words harden into steel as I’m sucked into oblivion.  Think before you speak.  

There’s a long pause, and then a soft, thoughtful voice.  “I wonder if we’re going about things the wrong way.  Perhaps, Kailani, it may be time for you to try some happiness instead.”  

And then I’m lost to a mother’s embrace and the darkness.

A Los Amigos

Jorge

An empty bag blows restlessly along the gutter, plastic film rustling, before catching on a Styrofoam tray, weighted down with chips spilling maggot-like onto the tarmac.  Not even the rats are tempted.  My lip curls: people are vile.  We’re nothing but parásitos, consuming, polluting, destroying, covering the earth like a plague of locusts.  But even locusts aren’t as voracious.  Most of the time, they keep themselves to themselves, blending into the background, unassuming and sluggish.  They only swarm when their environment changes, when the weather conditions cause overcrowding.  Humans?  We need no excuse to devour; we paw and grunt and chew, reaching for more before we’ve finished swallowing.  We even eat our own, their flesh our favorite delicacy.  And we worship the worst of the cannibals; the more they have, the more they take, and we cheer and seek to follow their example.  My hand shakes.  I’d love a quick drag, just to quiet my thoughts, but I can’t show up to the shelter smelling of weed.  Have to set a good example and all.

I turn down the alleyway, taking a shortcut.  I’ve been searching, for weeks I’ve been searching, keeping an eye on the denizens of the streets, but Kronos mustn’t be recruiting, at least not in London.  Or maybe, probably, the plan was a pile of mierda.  People come and go, all the time; some have their patches, but others drift.  Some are lifers; others are transient.  And there are dozens of shelters in the city, large and small.  I don’t know what I hoped to find: Magda with a clipboard, offering beds at a country retreat, just sign here?  I wouldn’t even recognize her.  I’ve kept an eye on the Gaia shelters too, and they are what they say they are, at least as far as I can tell.  Nothing suspicious; no chatter about a missing friend or neighbor.  I scuff the pavement with my boot, shaking my head.  And then I see her.

Her hair’s as bright as a new penny in the half-light of the early morning, a flash that stops my heart.  For a moment, I can’t breathe, and then the blood is racing through my veins and I’m running forwards like a heat-struck man towards water, desperate to slake my thirst.  I cover the distance between us, barely noticing she’s not alone, not until I reach out to grasp her shoulder, her name a prayer of thanksgiving in my mouth, “Maela!”

She turns, and I gaze at her, uncomprehending.  The same fine features and slight build, but her face is wrong.  The eyes are brown, the skin pale, no dusting of freckles across the pierced nose, and the copper hair’s come out of a bottle.

“Oi, what are you playing at?”  The sharp question, delivered in a tenor, snaps me out of my daze.  I blink, holding up my hands in apology, and start to back away.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer to the girl, who looks surprised and a little worse for the wear.  “I thought you were someone else.”  Disappointment roils my gut, the taste acrid in my mouth.

“S’alright,” she slurs, swaying slightly and struggling to focus.  She clutches a faux-fur, purple coat around her, legs bare beneath the short skirt.

I take in the thin wrists and ankles, the bloodshot eyes and blistered face that tell of drugs.  “Are you OK?” I ask gently.

“Fucking dago!”  The man, short but wiry, with a crooked nose hinting at more than one fight, barrels up like a gorilla, fists clenched.  I can smell the beer on his breath, mixing with the stale sweat of his tracksuit, and he’s clearly in the mood for a brawl.                                       

My eyes narrow.  “Watch your mouth.” 

“What did you say?”  He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, trying to make himself the big man, muscle into my space.  Puta cabrón!

“Are you deaf as well as ignorant?  I said to watch your mouth.”  Months of bitterness have made me reckless.  Where once I might have tried to calm him, not looking for bloodshed, now all I want is to put the xenophobic bastard in his place.

The girl hiccups out a laugh, and he rounds on her.  “Shut it, bitch!”  He raises a hand, and she cowers against the wall.

I step forward.  “Leave her alone!”

“Fuck off, mate!  None of your business!”

“Yes,” I say evenly, “it is.  Now leave her alone.”

“Yeah?  You’re gonna be sorry you stuck your nose in, asshole.”

I laugh, and the sound is a red flag to a bull.  He charges at me, but I sidestep him easily, spinning lightly to face him as he comes at me again.  This time, I tap him on the ribs as he stumbles by, the combined force of his momentum and my blow almost bringing him to his knees.  He takes a moment to gather himself, face contorting with anger, before coming to a crouch, waiting for the moment to try again.  I feel cocky and beckon him forward.  If the little tonto de culo wants a lesson in manners, I’ll be glad to give him one.  “Come on, little dumb-ass,” I croon.  “Let’s dance!”

Anger makes him as stupid as he looks, and he rushes at me, arms flailing.  Blocking his strikes, I drive my fist into his stomach, and he doubles over, yelping.  “Se va a la mierda, mi pobrecito gilipollas, no?”  I’m fairly certain he doesn’t understand that I’ve just told him he’s a dickhead, nor that it’s all going to shit, but the tone of my voice makes my meaning clear, and he springs back up, trying to grab me around the waist and headbutt me.  I push him away, swearing when he catches me in the kidneys, and take a step back.  He grins, and now I’m the one surging forwards on a cold wave of anger.  A swift right hook wipes the expression off his lanky face, his mouth filling with blood, and I’m about to follow up with a left, but a whimper stays my hand.  The girl!  I’d completely forgotten she was there, and I half turn towards her to check that she’s OK.

She’s hovering uncertainly, arms wrapped around her middle, looking from me to the weasel, then her eyes widen as I feel a rush of air.  I turn back to see a switchblade descending and instinctively put up my hand to shield my body.

There’s no pain, not at first.  I don’t even feel the knife slicing through skin and down to the bone.  Then I’m bellowing, arms drilling in quick succession, and the prick is on his knees before me.     

I land blow after blow; Finn’s taught me well, and I glory as my fists connect with rapidly mottling flesh.  He’s blubbering now, as bullies always do, and I pause to shake my head in disgust.  

“Jorge!”

The voice is familiar, but one I haven’t heard in weeks.  “Emlyn?”  I look up, disbelieving my eyes, as he races forward.

“Are you alright?”  The steel-grey eyes are alight with concern.

“What are you doing here?”  I thought everything was settled; we’d agreed that I was at fault and everyone was better off without me.

“What are you doing?”

I gesture, dripping blood.  “Teaching a cabrón some manners.”

Emlyn looks at my hand.  “Is that all your blood?”  I follow his gaze, feeling a little queasy now as I clock the gaping wound.  I think I can see a layer of yellow fat and even a flash of white and all of a sudden get a little faint.

“Jorge, you utter ass!  Why the fuck did you keep fighting after you dropped him?  He’s almost severed your thumb!  We need to get you to a hospital!  Miss,” Emlyn calls out to the girl, who hasn’t moved from her place beside the wall, “can you call 999?  I’ve got to keep the pressure on.”  He takes off his scarf, wrapping it round my palm.  My blood’s now coating his hands.

She nods, pulling a mobile from a tiny black purse, and the man on the ground stirs.  “Don’t you fucking call!  Help me up!”  He reaches out a hand, and she looks from him to me and Emlyn, then shakes her head, backing away.

“Bitch!” the weasel spits.  “I’ll sort you out!”  He lumbers to his feet, and she darts behind me and Emlyn as we pivot to shield her.

“Think again,” I growl.

Emlyn’s face flattens, a wall of ice descending, but his tone is conversational.  “You know, I think I might add ‘procuring’ to ‘possessing a weapon’ and ‘grievous bodily harm’.  Oh, and let’s not forget ‘possession with intent to supply’.  I think we could make that one stick too.”

“Huh?”  The pockmarked face, now swelling up nicely, looks confused.

“‘Pandering’, ‘soliciting’, ‘pimping’.  We have such a rich language, don’t we?  Carrying a knife around with the intention to threaten, using said knife to attack another member of the public.  Quite the charge sheet you’re building up.”

“Fuck off,” the escoria hisses but now shifting uneasily.

“No,” I move towards him, pulling my hand from Emlyn’s.  “You fuck off if you know what’s good for you.”

The lowlife mutters but begins to back away.  “Fine.  Slag!” he jeers at the girl before turning tail and scuttling down the alley.

“There you go.  Off you fuck!” Emlyn calls out after him.  “Miss, could you call that ambulance?  I need to look after my friend.”

“I’m fine,” I protest, feeling stupidly tired now and in a fair amount of pain but unwilling to concede.

“You’re clearly not.”  Emlyn rolls his eyes, reaching for my wrist again.  “You need to keep this elevated.”

“What I need,” I grumble, knowing I’m being petulant but unable to stop myself, “is to get on with my plan for the day.”

“Which is?”  Emlyn raises an eyebrow, and the gesture brings memory after memory to the fore, flaying me down to the bone.

“To keep scoping out the Gaia centers!” I snap.  

“Gaia,” Emlyn’s face softens in sudden understanding.

“Gaia,” the girl echoes, and we turn to her.  “I’ve called.”  She waves the phone absently.

“You know Gaia?” I ask, propping up my injured hand on my shoulder. 

She nods.  “Shelter, innit?”

“That’s right.  Have you been to one of the centers recently?”

“There last week.”  The girl scratches at her cheek.  “Needed meth, didn’t I?  Said they wanted to help.”  She shrugs her shoulders.  “Offered me a course.  Special treatment.”

“A course?” I coax, my heart beginning to pound.  Beside me, Emlyn is silent but alert.

“Yeah, at a big house ‘n’ all.  Real posh, they said, nice.  Out ‘n the country.”  She looks vacantly at her feet, then down the alley, pursing her lips. 

Emlyn and I stiffen as one.  

“That sounds nice,” I say carefully.  “Did they say where in the country?”

She shakes her head.  “Nah.  Didn’t want to go, did I?”

“No?”

“They got cows there.”  She picks at a nail.

“In the country?”

“Yeah, cows ‘n’ rats ‘n’ shit.”

I nod.  “So, you didn’t want to go.”  Behind the girl, I can see a tail disappearing between two garbage bags.

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember who you spoke to?”  Emlyn’s trying to keep his voice even and almost succeeding, and she turns to him, as if she’d forgotten he was there.

She shrugs.  “Some lady.”

“Tall?  Short?  Brown-haired?  Blonde-haired?”

“Yeah.  Gotta go now.”  She gestures at herself, yawning.  “Late night.”

“Wait!”  I reach out a hand.  “Do you remember which center it was?”

“Yeah, the one by Loughborough Junction.  That all?”

“Yes.”  It isn’t, not really, but it’s clearly all she knows.  “Come on, we’ll walk you home.”  

She smiles, revealing nicotine-stained teeth.  “Nah, never take punters back with me.”

“Here,” Emlyn steps forward, holding out a £20 note.  Take a cab.”

“You’re alright.”  She nods, pocketing the note.  “Cheers!”  She saunters down the alley.  “See ya!”  

Emlyn and I turn to look at each other, as an ambulance wails in the distance.

“A big house,” I breathe.

“Out in the country,” Emlyn replies, eyes gleaming.

◆◆◆

Three hours later, I’m leaving the hospital, with a lecture in one ear and a long list of instructions in the other.  The stitches hurt like hell, and I’m pretty sure the attending nurse gave me the lowest possible dose of anesthetic so that I’d feel each one going in and remember, “the next time I was tempted to get into a fight”.  Then there was the antibiotic, administered with a big fat needle.  But at least she was gentle when wrapping up my hand.

Emlyn stayed with me until the nurse came to collect me for treatment.  We didn’t speak – there was too much to say, and sitting on metal chairs, cushions worn away by the pressure of countless bodies, under the bright, impersonal lights of the waiting room, wasn’t the right moment.  He looked at me when the nurse arrived: “I’m going to check out the center.  Wait for me if I’m not back by the time you get out.”

I didn’t, of course.  As soon as the nurse discharged me, I headed for the doors, stepping out into the watery April sunshine.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”  A figure steps out from behind a sycamore.

“Home,” I answer shortly.

“Excellent!  We’ll take a cab.”

I stop: “I don’t need help getting back to my flat.”

Emlyn cocks his head: “I thought you said you were going home?”

“Brixton is my home.”

“No,” he shakes his head in denial, light-brown hair sliding across his brow, hands in blue-jean pockets.  “It isn’t.  And you’ve been gone too long.”

“Sí, well,” I shrug, turning and heading for the Tube station.

He falls into step easily beside me.  “Don’t you want to know how I got on at the shelter?”

“You’ll have everything under control.”  Besides, I’ll be going there myself tomorrow.  Emlyn’s skilled, but he won’t necessarily know when someone is lying.

“They don’t offer special programs.  And surprise, surprise, no CCTV – I scanned the corners and doors.  We’ll check out the footage for the past week from nearby cameras, of course, and keep the center under surveillance.”

“Whoever it is won’t come back, you know.”  I gesture at him.  You may be in jeans and a sweater, but you shout authority.  You’re too respetable.”  

He grins.  “My dear cousin, let’s call her ‘Venetia’, got hooked on cocaine by her disreputable boyfriend.  The family are scandalized and want to keep everything hush hush.  She needs to go somewhere she won’t be recognized.  I heard Elizabeth Cole on the news recently, talking about Gaia’s mission, and wondered if they might have discreet rehab centers, preferably in the countryside.”

I grunt: “And do they?”

“No.  But Venetia is welcome to attend a course as a day patient.  I took a brochure.”  He takes it out of his pocket and waves the sheaf of paper to hail a passing cab.

“Bueno.  Thanks for your help earlier.”  I nod and go to step past him, but he blocks me.

“Jorge, you silly ass.  Get in the cab.”

I look past him at the row of parked cars, my throat aching.  “Emlyn, I fucked up.  And she paid the price.”

He puts his hands on my shoulders.  “Then help us.  And you didn’t fuck up.  You were tricked; we all were.” 

I clench my injured hand, taking refuge in the physical pain.  “You don’t want me around.”

“We need you,” he answers simply. 

I sag as if I’ve been gut-punched, and the cabbie lowers the window.  “You two coming?”

I search Emlyn’s face; he gazes back at me steadily, jaw tight, waiting.  I sigh and give a single nod, and he closes his eyes for a heartbeat, then we climb into the cab, one after the other.  As we pull away, I ask, “How did you know where I was this morning?”

He looks out the window.  “I’ve been keeping an eye out.”

I can’t reply; the words won’t come.  Instead, I think about the meaning of friendship and the man sitting next to me.  We’re from vastly different worlds, yet we share a kindred spirit.  Like calls unto like.  “No puedo cambiar / tu pasado ni tu futuro, / pero cuando me necesites / estaré junto a ti,” I quote softly.  Emlyn glances back at me, and I translate: “I cannot change / your past or your future, / but when you need me / I’ll be at your side.”

His eyes glisten momentarily, and he replies, “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.”   

We lapse into silence, then, but it’s the quiet of a bond reborn.

The First Purple Day

Kailani

I wake up feeling… what am I feeling?  It’s hard to describe, and it’s foreign, not something I know well.  It’s kind of… bubbly?  That’s exactly it.  I feel decidedly… bubbly.  Oooooo.  This is… this is nice!  Stretching carefully so as not to pop any of the happy little champagne fizz dancing along my skin, I open my eyes slowly, the fuzzy room coming into bright focus.  Everything looks a little brighter than normal, a little more crisp.  Even the sheets and blankets have a jaunty air, as if to say, “today is going to be a good day”.  They smell like fresh laundry and sunshine, and I take a minute to bury my face in the unusually fluffy coverings before swinging my legs out of bed.             

Maela’s still asleep, curled up in a tiny, tight ball in her bed, and I wonder if I should let her rest.  But she’s due to be in the library in, like, half an hour, and I know she’ll be punished… the dark thought fades away like water in my hands.  I can’t focus on that right now, with the sunshine yellow flashing daisy patterns in my brain.  What to do, what to do?  Right.  I’ll wake up Mae, and then handle things so she can be ready on time.

“Hey, kiddo,” I whisper softly, padding over quietly to shake her tense shoulder.  “Wakey-wakey, eggs and bakey!”  My voice is rough and hoarse, and my throat hurts for some reason, but Maela distracts me from the pain.  She peels open a bleary eye, and I smile gently at her.  “Up an’ at ‘em, Red!  Time to face the day!”  Her brow furrows in confusion, before panic washes it away in sudden realization.

“Shit!  Shite!  What time is it?  Why didn’t I… I never oversleep!”  She’s beside herself, jumping out of bed, fluttering between her clothing and bed in indecision.  She never oversleeps because she never sleeps at all.  The thought drifts through my mind and then floats away.  I don’t have time to pay attention to it.

“I’ll handle the room-clean today.  Don’t worry, Buttercup!” I chirp.  “You just get to breakfast.  I’ll catch up.”  I pause consideringly, then smile.  “Mae!  I made a rhyme!”

The confusion is back on her face, this time mixed with deep concern.  “Are you alright, Kai?” she asks, worried.  “You seem… a little… different…”

“All French toast and gravy, Sugarplum!”  I shake out her sheets and make her bed, split splat in seconds flat, waving her away as she moves toward me.  “Seriously, girl.  Go get ready!”

She looks torn, but the clock on the wall makes a little buzzing-beeping sound, and she turns into a trapped bird, flapping frantically in its cage.  We’re not in a cage though.  We’re in a beautiful room on a beautiful day in a beautiful place.  Someone must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed.

“We’re not done with this, Kai.  Something isn’t right with you.  And – French toast and gravy isn’t a thing.”  A bit of frustration edges her voice when she checks my work on her bed.  “Also, if you can make the beds so neatly, why haven’t you been doing it all along?  You could have avoided so much trouble!  And cut my work in half!”

“Trouble-bubble.  We do what we do!”  I boop her nose once, then again for good measure, and if I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was about to punch me square in the face.  “Love ya’, Firecracker!  Let’s get… ready… to… Ruuuuuumble!”  She doesn’t have time to argue, but her eyebrows almost meet in the middle they’re so furrowed.  I smooth a thumb over them before giving her the hug she so obviously needs.  “You’ll get wrinkles, Maela.  Peaceful outside, peaceful inside.”  Parroting one of Estie’s favorite sayings, I shimmy to the bathroom door, dancing to a little music playing only in my head.  “Turning the beat around, Mae!  That’s what we’re doing today.  Turning the beat around!”  The clock buzzes again, and she hops toward the door on one foot, tugging her shoe on as she leaves.

“We’re talking about this at breakfast, Kailani!”  The words are a threat and a promise, and I shake my head, laughing.  Silly Maela.  It may still be dark outside, but in my head the sun is singing, the birds are shining.  Everything today is coming up roses.

The Dead Don't Need to Eat

Maela

It’s half-past dawn, and the refectory is filled with walking corpses.  I know I’m being unfair, but everyone’s mumbling and shuffling about.  I’m brain-damaged, and I think I’m the brightest one here, except maybe for Kailani.  And she’s damaged in her own way.

You’d think, with a name like “refectory”, it would be serene and welcoming.  The architecture of the room is beautiful, with a high ceiling; tall, sash windows, each half with six panes; deep baseboards, an elegant chair rail, and decorative casing around the doors.  And yet, the place is sterile; the walls are painted office-white and the lamps in the delicate, plaster-worked ceiling have been fitted with fluorescent bulbs.  I trudge across the thin, green carpet to the far side of the room, nodding hello to some of the people from Group.

“Good morning, Maela!  Cup of tea?”  The blonde woman behind the long, mahogany sideboard – Edwardian, I think – smiles at me.  Like the other orderlies, she’s wearing a pale-blue dress, with a white pinafore and cap.  She looks like she’s stepped out of the 1950s.  I don’t understand why all of the staff dress that way.  Is it meant to be reassuring?  Something from ye olden times?  A bit of tradition?  I can’t remember her name.

“Tea?” she asks again, and I realize I’ve been staring blankly at her and quickly nod.  We’re not allowed to serve ourselves.  I tried, when I was first allowed out of my room.  I limped to the sideboard, determined to show that I was well enough to move about, and reached my hand out eagerly for the coffee pot, already tasting the bittersweet goodness sliding down my throat, promising restoration, when the orderly gently intervened.  “We don’t serve ourselves, dear,” she’d said.  “What if we dropped a dish?  We could get a nasty burn!”  

I take the proffered cup of tea and sniff.  Strawberry, today.  Why does herbal tea smell so good and taste so bland?  One of life’s mysteries.  I’ll think about it when I go to bed tonight.  Something to wile away the hours.  Still, at least there are Danishes.  Not my favorite pastry, if I’m being honest.  I think the raisins make the pastry go soggy.  The cinnamon is frequently overdone.  And the icing glaze… No… just, no.  Like fruit teas, the idea is better than the reality. But a pastry is a pastry, and we’re usually served toast.  

“And to eat?  Maela?  To eat?  Hello?  Earth to Maela.  Come in, Maela.”  The words come in all at once, miles of telegraph wire looping between us, and I blink.

“I’ll have a Danish, please.”

She shakes her head regretfully.  “I’m afraid not today.  Nurse said you’ve been looking a bit bloated recently, and we need to watch your sugar intake.  How about some oatmeal?  Plain, of course.  Or some scrambled eggs and toast?”

I look at the eggs.  Jorge made me eggs.  Eggs and potatoes and onions.  A Spanish omelet.  Una tortilla.  I mouth the words.  Tor-ti-lla.  The simplest meals are often the most difficult.  You need to start off with good-quality ingredients, and then you need to treat them with care.  There’s nowhere to hide.  Nowhere to run.  Nowhere to hide.  Hide.  Nowhere.   

“Hmm, oatmeal for you, pet.  Let’s top up those vitamins!”  She hands me a bowl of slop.  I look down at it, then up at her, then down again, frowning.  “No butter?”

“Oh dearie me no!  We don’t want to pile on the pounds, do we?  Off you go, then!”  She turns to greet the next patient, and I slink to the nearest empty table.  I guess I haven’t been doing a lot of exercise lately, but I was bed bound for a long time.  A spark of indignation kindles, flares, and dies.  I’m just too tired to care.  She probably didn’t mean anything by the remark.  Just following orders.  Like a good little Nazi.  I’m stabbing disconsolately at my oatmeal when someone bounds into the chair opposite.

“Told you I’d make it on time, MAEla!  Room’s all tip-top-clippity-clop.  Hello, hello!  What a beautiful day!  Isn’t it a beautiful day?  Don’t you just looooove the sunshine?  I’m blissed out, baby.  Don’t you just looooove the feeling?”  The voice sighs in contentment.

I look up, disbelieving my ears.  Kailani is beaming at me.  She’s… she’s looking… freaky.  Her pupils are the size of dinner plates, and her face is, well, dewy.  And not in a good way.  She was… off in the room this morning, but I was late and didn’t have time to really take her in.  And now…

“Kailani?” I say doubtfully.

“Course it’s me, silly!”  She laughs like I’ve just told her the funniest joke she’s ever heard.  The sound, high-pitched and girlish, should reassure me, but it’s unnerving; and I bite my lip and cock my head, trying to work out what is going on. 

“Are you… OK?”

“Never better!  Tickety boo!  Psych!” she trills.  “Betya thought I was British.  Just for a sec.  Didja?  Huh?  Huh?  Oooh, whatcha got?  Oatmeal?”  She wrinkles her nose.  “Bleurgh!  Why?  Why would you do that?”  She leans forward on her elbows, chin resting on the backs of her fingers, looking at me earnestly.  

“Apparently, I’m getting fat,” I mutter.  I pick up a spoonful of oatmeal and let it plop back into the bowl.

“Whaaaa?  Who said that?  Who?  Who?”  Kailani’s mouth drops open, and I feel a little better.

“Nurse told the orderly I need to lay off sugar.  And butter.”

“Bitches!” Kailani breathes out.  “You’re… you’re totally beautiful, Mae-Mae.  Want me to shank ‘em for you?”

Mae-Mae?  Shank?  “Umm, no, I’m good.  But thanks.”

“Any time, girl.”  She leans back in her chair, tapping her hands on the table.  “Hey!  Hey!  Guess what?”

I look up.  “Mmmm?”

“I get garden time today!  Isn’t that great?”  She jumps up and down in her chair, looking equal parts thrilled and stupid, like a pageant queen on crack.

“Umm, yeah?”  I mean: grass, trees, flowers.  What’s so exciting?  Gardens shmardens.  I like to walk in them and clear my head, a voice of chocolate and brandy whispers.  Go away, I whisper back.  You’re not real.  Nice one, princess, another voice rumbles.  This one is low and gruff, a lion coming to sit by my side. 

“It is, isn’t it?” Kailani squeals.  “I’m so excited.  Hey!  Hey!  Wanna come with?”

“Thanks,” I sigh.  “But I haven’t got permission.”

“Permission!” Kailani scoffs.  “You don’t need permission!”

“Hmmm,” I shrug, looking down at my tea, and am not surprised when Kailani’s chair scrapes back.  Yeah, everybody leaves.  The guys.  Maman.  Daddy.  I’m not great company, I know.  But fuck!  Nothing feels right in my head.  Some days, just getting out of bed is a triumph.  

I’m still looking at my tea when Kailani returns.  It’s a garish pinky-red and to my mind doesn’t resemble a strawberry at all.  More like additive E-124.  Brought to you by coal tar and petroleum, folks!  Yummy!

I can hear a plate sliding across the table, and a Danish heaves into view.  I look up. Kailani’s grinning at me.  “I got your back,” she says cheekily.  She’s holding a second pastry in her hand – something with chocolate by the looks of it.

“Don’t you… don’t you want it?”  My hand’s hovering over the pastry.  Raisins be damned.

“Nah.  They gave me two today.”  She looks supremely pleased with herself.  “But I’ll drink your tea if you’re not having it.  Kinda thirsty.”  

I nod, already lifting the pastry to my mouth and… oh, bliss!

“Fank you,” I mumble through the pastry, already opening my mouth for another bite.          

“No problem.”  Kailani slurps the tea, then shoves a huge bite of her chocolate croissant in her mouth, and, for a moment, we sit there in companionable silence.

“Maela!  Kailani!  WHAT is going on?”  

I startle, choking on a mouthful of pastry.  Nurse dye-job is standing next to us, looking outraged.

Kailani flaps her hand like a bird, chirruping, “Hey, nurse!  Hey!” and smiles goofily.  I stare at the woman, scared and guilty all at once.

“Well?” she snaps, eyes boring into me.

“I… I…”  My mind feels sluggish, and I can’t think of a suitable response.

She shakes her head.  “Get up.  Breakfast is over.  Kailani, it’s time for your Group.”

“Yay!”  Kailani jumps up and runs around the table to give me a hug.  “Bye, Mae-Mae!”

I want to cling to her, hold fast so that she doesn’t leave me alone with Dye-job, but Kailani slips through my fingers and skips away.  Dye-job looks at me with something approaching disgust and shakes her head.

“All this time, and still you refuse to let us help you.”

Suddenly, I swing from wanting to crawl inside the chair to yearning to pick up the bowl of porridge and throw it in her sanctimonious face.  Instead, I drop my head, as if ashamed, and listen to her rant.

“The doctors are working hard to calibrate your medicine, to find the correct regime.  The dosage, the type of medication, they depend on your weight, when you take the pills, if you have them with food.  We have explained this.  And still.  Still!  You disobey.  I wonder, Maela.  Sometimes I really wonder if you even want to get better!”

Half a measly pastry, and I’m Rebecca, Who Slammed Doors for Fun and Perished Miserably?  I drop my head lower.  Be good, my mind whispers.  Be contrite, but not too contrite too quickly, or Nurse will be suspicious.

“I’m…”  My voice trails away, as if torn between fear and petulance. 

“Yes, Maela?”

“I’m sorry… but I hate porridge!  It’s hospital food, and I’m getting better.  Dr. Beaufort said so.  She said so!”  I bite the soft skin of my inner lip hard while twisting my mouth into a pout, and my eyes tear up.  “I’m not stupid.  I’m not!”  I chance a look up at Dye-job, whose scowl has shifted to the faintest of smirks.  Why have I never before realized how much she resembles Mrs. Danvers?  We could be at Manderley.  But where is my Maxim de Winter?

“No one has said that you’re stupid, Maela.  But you do sometimes do stupid things.”

“I’m not brain damaged!” I say, injecting an extra note of desperation.  “I have a Ph.D., you know.  I’ve published articles.  In academic journals.”

“Of course you have.  But you did suffer a catastrophic injury.  You need to accept that it will take time to recover.  And you need to let us help you.”

“I can have a pastry,” I mutter under my breath.  I think about scuffing my shoe on the floor but decide that it might be overkill.

Dye-job lifts her eyes briefly, a martyr calling on heaven for strength.  “Not today you can’t, missy.  Now, I think you need a little rest, don’t you?  Someone else can take over your library duties today.  Iris?  A moment?”

“I can get back to my room on my own.”  I push myself to my feet.  “I don’t need a babysitter.  No offense,” I say to the young woman who’s appeared at my elbow.  I don’t recognize her; she must be new.

“None taken,” she smiles.

“Maela is looking a bit peaky,” Dye-job talks over me.  “Iris, please see that she gets back to her room.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Iris murmurs.  “Maela, would you like to come with me?”  She gestures towards the door, and I let my shoulders slump.  No point in protesting any further.

Dye-job nods.  “Remember, Maela.  We are here to help you get better.”

I shrug but let a yawn escape and follow Iris to the door, Dye-job looking after us complacently. 

Outside, I make one final play for freedom.  “I really don’t need an escort.  I’m not going to keel over.” 

Iris turns left, towards the dormitories, and just for a moment, I think about disappearing in the opposite direction.  “Yow, gyal!  You comin’?” she calls out.

I huff and trail after her.  OK: refectory, kitchen, storeroom, don’t know…  I’m so busy reviewing the mental map that I almost walk into Iris, who’s stopped at the end of the hallway.  To the right is the corridor leading to the classrooms and dormitories; to the left is a doorway – locked – opening onto the back lawn.  

I look at Iris, who smiles impishly.  “Nurse can’t see us now.  You good from here?”

Dazed, I nod.  We’re breaking the rules.  I didn’t think they could even be bent.

She holds up a phone.  “Gonna take a break.  Don’t tell!”

I shake my head, the beginnings of a smile on my own face.

She holds up a thumb.  “All fruits ripe!”  Leaning back against the door, she begins scrolling, and I turn and head for my staircase.  Alright: one, two, three classrooms on the left, nurses’ station on the right…

The Taste of Happiness

Kailani

I shimmy-shake myself all the way to Group this morning.  Breakfast was ah-maz-ing today – all my favorites lined up in a little row, which never happens.  But all the planets are aligned in my world right now – they must be, because, although Dennis looks mulish, he’s not in his usual seat beside me.  He’s across the sharing circle, and I have two docile, doe-eyed women on my right and on my left.  Do I know them?  Do I know them? I think, and the lightbulb flashes.

“Morning, Claire, no, sorry.  Clara!  Cara!  Ha!  Got it in one.  Morning… I want to say… Bri?  Is that right?”  Bri offers a miniscule nod in answer to my question, and I hold up my hand for an unreturned high-five.  “Ah, leaving me hanging today?  No worries.  Not every day is a high-five day for every person.  Cara?  How ‘bout you?”  Cara just stares at me with her numpty face – unkind, Kai.  Unkind…  with her placid face, and I shrug.  “Enid, nice to see you. Fan-fucking-tas-tic glasses.  I like the tortoiseshell.  Nice change from the red.  Dennis, a pleasure.  And – I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”  The last person in the group tilts his head at me consideringly, a much different response from the normal mushrooms, and he smiles.

“Hi.  I’m Zale.”  Zale is a ridiculous name for the man in front of me, all bronze and brawn.  He’s like a shadow carved from obsidian, not a soft curve on him, just rock-like muscles under light-swallowing skin.  His eyes are black-in-black, which almost make the whites gleam, and his smile is bright and cheerful.  Everything about him is both happy and dangerous, and I find myself grinning back before I know it, cheeks scrunched. 

“Zale?”  He can hear the laughter in my voice, but it’s clear he’s not affronted, and he rolls his eyes.

“I know.  My parents were weird.  You should hear my siblings’ names.”  Grinning again, he circles a finger around his temple in the air.  “Loco loco.  But I guess that’s why we’re here too, right?” 

The thought is a rumble in my stomach; the champagne bubbles up to erase it before I can examine it further.  “Well, Zale, I’m Kai.”  Double gun-pointing at him, I pretend-shoot him, and he grabs his heart and pretend-falls off the chair.  The moment is so adorkable and awkward that we both end up laughing, a little shimmer of happiness in the air between us, though no one else in the circle seems amused.  But I feel good today.  I feel so good! I think.  I don’t remember the last time I felt like this – I don’t know if I’ve ever felt like this, and the thought floats from my mouth before I can grab ahold of it.

“Enid.  Is this what normal people feel like?  Like, all the time?”

“Well, I don’t know, Kailani,” she replies carefully.  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re feeling, and we’ll go from there.  Would you like to share first today?”

I nod.  Why not?  “Where do you want me to start, Enid?” 

Her lips purse slightly, and she tilts her head consideringly.  “Did they change your medication, Kai?” she asks, looking over the paperwork in her lap. 

“Yup!”  I smile at her, a real smile, because I know that she’s trying to help.  “They gave me purple stuff last night.  Burned like hell going down…like liquid fire.  I screamed for an hour.  I cried and cried.”  I giggle.  “I was like, so, so loud.”  The thought is funny to me now, and I laugh again.  Why in the world would I scream so long?  Who cries about medicine?  My hand drifts to my throat, and I feel long, painful marks running down the column of my neck, as though I’d tried to rip out my own trachea.  There are claw marks on the raw skin, and vague memories of the taste of iron and sulfur cloud around me, but it’s a dream, or a nightmare, and I’m awake now.  “I’m awake now,” I echo my thought inanely, but Enid smiles, so it must have made some sense.

“Well, let’s just start at the beginning, shall we?  Since it’s Zale’s first time with us, why not do a full introduction?”

Again, that shiver of nausea and panic runs through me before fading.  It leaves a faintly acrid taste in my mouth, and I swallow, trying to get rid of it.

“Need some water, Kai?  Maybe some tea?” Zale asks, smiling that wide smile again, and he hops up, looking over the small table by the wall that holds tiny paper cups and napkins.  “They have… I don’t know what any of this is.  Darjeeling?  Yuck.  Earl Grey?  Some kind of green tea – tastes like grass to me; I always feel like they’ve poisoned me, but if you want some…  I’d just dump it in a plant or something, to be honest…”  His voice trails off as he glances over his shoulder at me, and it reminds me of… I can’t remember.  

“Déjà vu…” I whisper to myself, and he cocks his head.

“What is?” he asks curiously.

“You asking about the tea.  Just…”  I tap my head nervously.  “It just reminds me of something, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

His grin softens to an understanding look.  “Well, I’m sure I’m not the first person in your life to offer you a cup of tea.  What are you in the mood for?”

The Group is unusually quiet, letting our interaction play out.  Enid looks very satisfied, like the cat who got the cream, and if I had to guess I’d say it’s because I haven’t hit anyone yet.  Though why would I ever hit anyone?  The girls are silent ghosts.  But Dennis, Dennis is volcanic.  He’s so angry, and I have no idea why, but it makes me smush-face grin again.  Dennis is funny when he’s angry.  “Well, I’d kill for a coffee–” there’s an intake of breath from around the circle, as though I’d actually kill someone for coffee, which is fucking… freaking hilarious.  “But since there’s none, I guess–”

“There’s coffee,” Zale interrupts me, and my heart stutters.  Actually stutters.  

“What?” I ask, voice so hopeful it hurts even me to hear it.

“There’s coffee?”  He sounds confused.

“Real coffee or mushrooms?” I ask suspiciously, and he nods, face confused, pointing to a small carafe labeled…

“Seven holy hells!” I crow delightedly, hopping up from my seat and running across the circle to the table.  “Coffee, coffee, coffee!” I sing under my breath, not caring that I sound certifiable.  “Oh my gods.  Come here, baby.”  Crooning, I pour a massive cup and breathe it in.  “Zale!  There’s coffee!  Oh Christ.  It’s hot!”  

He laughs, and I laugh, and I don’t know what is happening today, but something in me spasms, seizing enough that I feel like I’m breaking open and shattering into pieces, and my eyes fill with tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, instantly concerned, reaching out to wipe a trail of saltwater from my cheeks, and I shrug, confused.

“I don’t know!” I say.  “I don’t know… is this happiness?  Is this what it feels like?  All the time?  It hurts.”

Zale’s face creases in worry, but Enid calls us back to the circle again.  While we were at the table, one of the ghost girls has drifted to a different seat, and now Zale and I sit together, facing Enid.  “I don’t know the layout here yet,” he whispers to me out of the corner of his mouth, “but if we’re forming teams for something, I’m on yours, okay?”  I nod before I can help myself, and my hand drifts up again to my temple, hearing an echo, before Enid catches my attention.

“Kailani.  Now that you have your coffee, why don’t you start for us.”

“Which part?” I ask, and she taps her pencil against her mouth.

“The whole thing, from the beginning, please.”

“The way I remember it, or the way it actually happened?”

There’s something about how I phrase it that makes her smile, and for the first time, she gets up and crosses the circle to crouch in front of me.  She passes my coffee mug to Zale, then takes my hands.  “Tell us the way you remember it, and I’ll take notes to see if anything has changed.  We’re all here to support you in your recovery, Kai.  And you’re doing wonderfully today.  Let’s take that and run with it.”

Dennis groans audibly, and Enid’s head whips around, eyes narrowing.  “Do you have something of use to add here?  Or are you just determined to cause problems today?”

His eyes flare open in surprise.  I don’t think she’s ever spoken to him like that, and it’s clearly ruffled his feathers.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” he hisses, and she licks her lips, snakelike.  Oooo.  Careful, careful, Dennis, I think, but he doesn’t know her signs as well as I do and just keeps talking.  “I’ll have you remember that you need me in this Group, Enid.”  There’s something hidden in his words, but I can’t focus as Zale nudges my shoulder gently and passes my coffee back to me.

Enid stares at Dennis for a long, long moment, then raises her index finger slightly.

The surprise changes to panic on his face.  “Fuck you!  Fuck you!  You can’t do this!”  He’s screaming now, writhing against the hands of the orderlies who march, stone faced, into the Group to pick Dennis up.  “Who the fuck do you think you–”  One  of the orderlies shoves a ball of cloth into his mouth, stopping his diatribe, and I wince internally.  I know how that feels and wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy.  Even Dennis.  Well, maybe Dennis, I think, lips twitching.  

I’m fascinated.  I’ve never seen it from this side of things.  Usually I’m the one writhing, the one unable to breath with a dirty rage choking me, the one being dragged away to the Hole, where all the lost things go.  But today I’m sitting safely, holding Enid’s hand, Zale’s arm hooked protectively over the back of my chair.  Today I have coffee and ate my favorite breakfast and–

Dennis breaks free from the orderlies, rushing at me, hands outstretched like claws, and before I can move, Zale is on his feet swinging.  “No!” he barks out, and his fist connects with Dennis’s face in an audible crack, blood splattering as the smaller man’s head jerks back, and he crumples to the floor.  

“Ow!  Ow!” Zale mutters ruefully, shaking his hand out.  “Dude has a rock-solid face; I’ll give him that.”  For some reason, that makes me giggle, which makes Zale giggle, and we end up in gales of near hysterical laughter over the prone, unmoving figure on the floor.  

Enid rolls her eyes like a tolerant mother and motions to the orderlies, who quickly rush in and drag Dennis away.  “Goodness,” she says, clearly exasperated.  “Such antics.  Thank you for your help, Zale.  Kailani, if you’re feeling up to it, would you like to begin?”

And sitting here, holding Zale’s hand like a lifeline, I think, maybe I would like to begin.  Maybe I’d like to begin being someone new.  Someone who can handle happiness like this without feeling injured by it.  Maybe this will help me get there.  So, taking a deep breath, I start.

Oversharing

Kailani

“Once upon a time…” I begin in a lilting voice and am rewarded by Zale’s crinkled-up smile next to me, as though we’re sharing a joke that only we know.  

“Little Red Riding Hood went into the woods and met the Big Bad Wolf for an impromptu rendezvous…” he whispers, waggling his eyebrows in a Groucho Marx way, and it’s a sign of what a good mood Enid is in today (tortoiseshell glasses, after all) that she only rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

“Children, children.”  Her tone is amused, and I cock my head at her, mouth curling up at the corners.  

“Did I finally break you, Mod?”  Except usually when I say “Mod” it’s dripping in disdain, not teasing gently, and I’m treated to the first real smile she’s ever given me.

“I like you like this, Kailani.  You’re much more enjoyable to be around when you’re not attacking people.”

“Who, me?”  I gasp theatrically and press my hand to my heart.  “Heaven forbid!”  And I’m joking, but also, not really, because I can’t imagine ever wanting to hurt anyone when I’m feeling this good.  Good.  Gooooood.  Goodgoodgood.  The word is funny, and I laugh to myself under my breath.  Zale laughs along next to me, and for a quick second, I wonder why, but the thought is washed away in glitter.  Glitter penises?  Glittery, flittery peni?  A weird picture intrudes into my happy moment, shoving aside the thick purple, and a face emerges from the cotton-candy color, holding balloons, hair blending in with the rest of my brain.

“KaiKai?”  Zale’s question snaps me out of the moment, and I shake my head sharply, rubbing my temple.  KaiKai?  Why does that make me feel so sick?  But the purple bubbles up again and washes the nausea away.  

“Sorry.  Just a crazy thought.  But this is the land of crazy thoughts, right?  So it’s all good.  In the neighborhood.”  Not my best joke – Zale’s smile looks a little strained, but he laughs gamely.  

“Enid was just saying maybe start at the beginning?”

“Let’s start at the very beginning… a very good place to staaaart…” I sing, and I know I’m not imagining the slight, annoyed twitch of his eye before he takes a deep breath and chimes in.

“When you read you begin with A, B, C…”  His voice is as tuneless as mine, and I laugh.

“Yes, Zale!” I crow and high-five him.  “We’re gonna be friends for sure!”

Zale smiles at me with devastating dimples that should knock me flat on my ass but leave me curiously cold.  Still, lilac is electric on my teeth, forcing my lips to pull up in response, and he winks at me in reply.  Enid clears her throat in a meaningful way, but without malice.  

“Okay, Mod, okay.  Once upon a time, there was a little girl.  She was pretty fucking awesome, I don’t mind telling you.  Walked early.  Talked early.  Read early.  Cleaned up her room, loved her Mom and Dad, never talked back.  And her parents loved her.”  Black clouds fill my stomach and push out my mouth, filling the room with dark mist, and I rub my eyes violently.  The mist disappears, but the uneasy feeling stays in my stomach.  Zale takes my hand gently, and I pull away, catching Enid’s warning look to him from the corner of my eye.

“Her parents loved her,” I repeat fiercely, and Enid nods her head.

“I’m sure they did, Kailani.  I’m sure they did.  What could a child ever do to make his or her parents not love them?  Why would it be the child’s fault if they left?”

Her words are meant to soothe, to help… I’m sure they are… but somehow they sound different.  Like a question specifically for me.  What did I do?  Why was it my fault?  I continue.  “She… uh… she was a good kid.  Mostly, anyways.  There was just this one thing…”  Enid leans forward, pen poised over her notebook.  I don’t like this, I think suddenly, but then the purple surges forward again, and I laugh because it tickles.  “She had this one crazy thing.  See, children learn emotions like they learn colors.  At first everything is rainbow – red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple.  Not even indigo or violet.  Just those six, simple colors.  All reds are just red.  All blues just blue.  And emotions are the same way.  Kids learn happiness, sadness, love, anger… just those.  Those simple emotions.  Those simple colors.  And maybe hunger feels like an emotion, and maybe tiredness feels like an emotion.  But it’s all an easy fix.  And that’s all that they’re meant to know, in their little world.  As they grow, maybe they learn pink and frustration.  Or teal and disappointment.  Maybe gold and jealousy, or rose and sorrow.  You learn new colors, new shades of things, and new emotions too.  But something breaks inside of kids who learn new emotions too quickly or out of order.  Some emotions are too big for children’s hearts, and it cracks them inside.  Grand Canyon cracks.”

Enid’s voice is gentle.  “Is that what happened to you, Kailani?  Is that what made you crack inside?”

Purple is yanked away, so quickly and violently I feel like throwing up.

“Me, Mod?  I’m the Mariana Trench.  But filled with sadness instead of ocean.”  The words slip past my lips, little silver fish flashing, and I’m catapulted back to a time before my world came apart, when my Dad took me to an aquarium.  Just a father–daughter date; Mom was somewhere else, and it was so special.  A golden memory.  But there was one moment that always stuck with me, outside of the ice cream and the laughter.  

We were at an empty exhibit, a white piece of paper stuck on the glass that said, “Closed for repairs”, and Daddy pointed out a tiny line in the upper corner.

“See, Bug?  The glass must have been faulty.” 

“Can’t they patch it?” I’d asked, and he looked down at me with a very thoughtful expression.

“Well…” he began slowly, trying to find the words, turning back to look at the tank.  “They could try.  It would be a lot of effort to fix it, I think.  And then there would always be the risk that the patch would fail and the glass would break and all of those poor fish, all that coral, all those plants, would come tumbling out of the tank.  And what would happen then?”

“The fish would die?” I asked sadly, and he nodded, brows creasing as he transferred his focus to me.  

“They would.”  Crouching down in front of me, he’d taken my hands and studied them, so tiny in his own.  Staring at them, he didn’t look at me as he kept talking, words careful, thoughtful, as though he was realizing something he hadn’t before.  “That tiny crack, so insignificant, could cause so much trouble.  The fish would die, of course, and the coral and the plants.  But this floor would be ruined as well, from the water.  The exhibit would have to be closed for a long time.  The aquarium would lose money.  And the loss of those rare fish and everything in there that were irreplaceable would be gone, forever.  What if something bad happened...”  I could hear tears in his voice, “… and it was on your watch, because you thought the patch would work; you were arrogant enough to think you could fix it.  When, in reality, your life and the lives of everyone you cared about would have been immeasurably better if you’d just started over from scratch.  If you’d taken the initial pain of a small loss and moved on.  Let other people, more equipped to handle things, take over.  And finally, finally have that chance at happiness.”  He looked up at my face, still crouched before me, and touched my cheek gently.  I was so confused, strange emotions cascading through me, one after another.  “What about you, kid?  You think your mom and pop deserve some happiness?”  

The words were strange.  He’d never called me “kid”, never called himself “pop”, but I nodded anyway.  “Of course, Daddy.”  

Squeezing my hands almost painfully, he nodded and stood up.  “Okay, then,” he said, as though we’d decided something, and took a deep breath.  “Let’s head home.  Oh, and kid?”  I looked up at his suddenly cold face, scared and confused.  “Maybe just call me ‘Dad’ now.  You’re almost six.  Right?”  He tried to inject humor into his voice, but it fell flat.  

“I’m almost six,” I repeated, but a violent shiver went through me; a sick feeling I couldn’t identify as a child was born in my stomach.  

“Or maybe even ‘Dale’.  Like a big kid, right?”

“I… I like ‘Daddy’…”  And I remember, lightning bright, searing itself into my memory, the flat look on his face when he stared down at me.  I knew I’d said something wrong, but I was five.  I was five.

“Well.  Let’s think about it.”  His voice was jocular, but in a business-like way, like laughing at your boss’s jokes, and he turned to walk away to a new exhibit.  “Come on, Bug!” he called over his shoulder, but my nickname was different now in his mouth, and suddenly I didn’t like it anymore.

“Bug, hunh?  I can see why.  You are as cute as a bug.”  Zale’s voice breaks into the memory, into the rolling chaos swirling in my stomach, the bubbly purple darkening into a lightning storm of vivid bone-white and thunder-dark merlot that even the cotton-candy liquid can’t hold out against.   

“Don’t call me that,” I snap viciously, a rabid dog baring teeth, echoes of violence in my voice, and he startles back, looking at Enid in surprise.

She narrows her eyes, but her glasses are tortoiseshell, so she makes a note, takes a deep breath, and shakes her head.  “Now Zale,” she admonishes him, and I can tell it surprises him.  “Kai just shared a deeply personal experience.  We need to learn from her and help her grow from it, not make her relive it.”

Zale’s jaw is tight, a strange look for his smiling face, and his nostrils flare, but his face softens as he looks at me.  “Sorry, KaiKai.  I thought maybe if we associated it with something positive, it would help…”  I want to shake my head, to protest, and why does him calling me “KaiKai” bother me so much, but I feel nauseous, like I’m on a capsizing ship in ten-foot waves, ricocheting back and forth between strange happiness and savage anger, and I can’t speak.

Who is this guy anyway?  Why does he want to call me – purple surges up, biting and burning, forcing happiness, and it hurts my head and my stomach, but I laugh anyway.  Why am I laughing?

I feel paint-by-numbers now, like I’m seeing someone else acting like me, and it’s hard to get back to that place where I felt so much more… real.  A different sort of happiness than this one, a type that wasn’t as overwhelming, that held some sadness, some caution, some quiet hope.  Because you were actually happy, my mind whispers insidiously, snakes of doubt curling through the purple fog that is suddenly choking me.  Was that happiness?  And I press my hands over my face as a pair of concerned, whiskey-colored eyes flashes through my mind.  Please, Kai, the little voice begs.  Please, Kai.  Figure this out before it’s too late.

“Perhaps that’s enough for today,” Enid says kindly.  “You’ve done really wonderful work, Kailani.  We get through the hard things so everything else can be easier.”  I’m trying to focus on her, panting lightly, bright purple swirling with a deep merlot in my stomach, and I nod, feeling sick.  Enid makes a note in her book and motions to Zale.  “I think a reward of some sort is in order.  I know you had garden approval today, but… perhaps… what sounds best to you, Kailani?  What would be your perfect day?”

I laugh, choking a little on the question.  “I… I don’t know.  Pain au chocolate.  Mochas.  The newest Marvel movie.  I don’t know.  A… a friend…”  My voice trails off, and the bridge of my nose stings for a second, like I’m about to cry.

Surprisingly, she smiles at me.  “Well!  Those are all very achievable things.  In fact – Zale?  Would you like to help organize a little treat for your new friend?  The nurse can show you both to the downstairs movie room?”

I’m stunned.  Actually stunned.  “Nice things don’t happen to me here,” I whisper unintentionally, and she puts down her little clipboard to focus her entire attention on me.

“Kailani.  Today is a purple day.  Hmmm?  You’ve earned this.  You’ve done the work.  You’ve followed the steps.  And now you reap the reward.  Every day can be like this, if you cooperate with us.  Every single day.  I promise you.”

And with that, the sickening merlot drains away, leaving only pale lavender floating up through my veins.

Zale moves next to her, and I’m locked between two pairs of intent eyes.  “If you need a bestie, KaiKai, I volunteer as tribute!  Everyone needs a safe place, somewhere they can store all of their secrets.  I’m full of secrets,” he grins, winking.  “I can make room for yours.”

I smile back unintentionally, but the words tumble out before I can stop them.  “I… I have Maela…”

Enid shakes her head.  “Of course.  Of course you do,” she says reassuringly, but her face tells a different story, and she doesn’t even pause before continuing, “but you don’t want to burden her with your recovery, do you?  Zale is one of our success stories!  He’s well on his way to leaving here.  And, with a little hard work, you could follow shortly after!  Wouldn’t that be something?  You two could meet up at a little café together, go to an actual movie theater – you just have to trust in the process.”

“I can do that…” I whisper.

“I know you can, if you just try,” she replies, smiling.  “Every day can be purple.  You just have to want it enough.”

Zale grabs me by my hand, pulling me lightly to my feet.  “Movie time!” he crows, and I grin up at him.

I just have to want it enough, I think to myself.  Just give them what they want, and there will be no more bad days.  Just give them what they want.  Trust the process.  And everything will always be purple.

Sutures

Kavi

The traitor’s gone to get his stitches out.  I couldn’t believe it when he came through the door behind Emlyn.  Seef nodded warily, but I had to leave the room; otherwise, I would have done violence.

What was Emlyn thinking?  That we’d just wipe the last few months clean, rewind to the start of December?  After the gaddaar disappeared, just up and left, I’m amazed he has the nerve to show his face again.  And now he’s got into a fight and hurt his hand, and we’re all supposed to feel sorry for him.  Well boo hoo.  At least he’s keeping out of the way, waiting to come out of his room in the morning until I’ve showered, heading off to the bar before we’ve got back from work.  Not that he’s really being considerate; he just keeps odd hours.  But if he thinks we don’t know that he’s using, he’s delusional.  The hallway sometimes smells like an Amsterdam coffee shop after he’s walked through.  And I’m pretty sure he might be taking steroids; he’s looking suspiciously fit, although, I concede, that could be down to training.  I can hear him working out in his room at night, and I know he spars with the bar owner.  But Jorge isn’t a violent person; he’s always been controlled and level-headed.  So, if not steroids, then what would make him get into a fight?  He’s a peacemaker, a caretaker, like me.  He is – was – my friend.

I head up to the lounge.  Time for my own workout.  I really don’t feel like it today, but skipping practice because I’m not in the mood is a slippery slope to getting out of shape and out of sorts.  I’m a creature of habit; my brain needs the routine.  And I know, once I get started, that I’ll feel better.

I push back the couch and start to limber up.  The files Emlyn’s had me reviewing are driving me crazy.  There’s nothing new there.  We know that Kronos has its tentacles in several countries, with operations in the United States, Britain, and Australia, and probably the European continent, judging by the origins of some of the trafficked women.  The organization works with subsidiaries, like Ratko’s old gang, selling or stealing drugs, arms, and people. 

Why?  To supplement Gaia’s legitimate earnings?  Must be.  As a charity, Gaia has to keep detailed records, and even if they were doctored, if they were ever audited, well…  Al Capone was famously brought down by tax fraud.  So, Kronos needs extra money.  Why?  Money for money’s sake, or are they using the cash for something else?  And what are the bodies for?  Are they guinea pigs?  Or are they drugged to keep them docile?  Whatever Kronos is playing at, we know they’re ruthless, treating the world as their playground and not above using bombs as a distraction.   

The door opens and closes.  From my position, in a headstand, I can see Seef’s feet, encased in sheepskin moccasins.  Huh.  That seems a little soft for him; I would put him down as more of a walks-barefoot-over-nails sort of a guy.

“Don’t get up,” he quips.

I grunt, tracking him through narrowed eyes as he walks over to the couch and takes a seat, leaning forward, right elbow on right knee.

“So, big man,” he begins.

I transition to a forearm stand.  “What do you want, Seef?”

“Nice move,” he remarks.  “Impressive.  One of those ‘don’t try this at home’ things.”

I lower my legs and push up to downward-facing dog, taking a moment to rest, then slide into a lunge.  “Get to the point.”

“Well look who’s got his knickers in a twist today?”

Three-legged dog, lower, lunge on the other side, raising my head to glare at him.

“Alright, alright!  God, you’ve got a face like a slapped arse sometimes!  OK.  You need to sort out your issues with Jorge.  We can’t work effectively as a team with him slinking around like a whipped cur and you behaving like a sanctimonious prick.”

“Fuck.  You,” I say succinctly, moving through a dog again in preparation for a side crow.  I jump into a forward fold, placing both hands on the outside of my right foot, gathering to brace my right thigh on my left arm and lift both legs off the ground, trying to ignore what Seef has just said.

“Could you stop for a moment?  You’re making me feel inadequate.”

I quash the urge to snort.  He doesn’t get to insult me then make me laugh.  But I do lower myself to a seated position.  Maybe if I tie myself into a lotus, I won’t give in to the need to lash out.  I hate feeling simultaneously angry and amused.  It’s like the universe is torturing me.

I take a deep breath, hold, and let it out.  “Jorge let us down.  First he left Maela alone; then he left us alone.  He doesn’t get to waltz back in as if nothing’s happened.  Frankly, I don’t know why Emlyn brought him back.”

“You know, if it had been up to me, I would have kicked you both out in the beginning,” Seef announces casually.

I go cold, and still.  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Arend.”

“I do, don’t I?  Ex-marine and all.  But we’re talking about you.  I was suspicious, you know.  Of you and Jorge both.  At one point, I thought he could have been a mole and that you could have been helping him, you two being such good mates.”

“You’d better be making a joke in very poor taste.”  I clench and unclench my hands.  I will not hit the smug bastard; I will not hit him.

“Nah, bru.  I really did.  Then Emlyn pointed out that Babylon vetted both of you twice, along with MI5, and that you’d met Maela before Cole even knew about her.  So I discarded that theory, put it down to tiredness and desperation.  A real man owns up to his mistakes.”

“Oh, you are fucking asking for it.”  I uncoil and get to my feet, looming over him.  “Stand up and say that again.”

“Stop posing.  You’re like a bloody peacock.”  He leans back against the cushions, looking nonchalant, but his eyes are stern.  “Admit it.  You misjudged Alfaro; I misjudged him; Emlyn misjudged him.”

“I don’t think so.”  I feel a bit silly, standing to attention while he’s relaxing on the couch, so I turn and head for the door.

“I’ll just follow you, you know.  We may as well have this out now, and then you and Jorge can have it out,” Seef calls out behind me.

I spin around.  “There’s nothing to discuss.  And if you’re so keen on people taking responsibility for their mistakes, you should be having this conversation with Jorge.  He’s the one who left her alone.”

“And who’s to say you wouldn’t have done the same?”

“I would never have left her alone!” I snarl.

“Really?  Not even if your crotch was dripping champagne and your hand was dripping blood and all the posh nobs were staring and Maela took it into her gorgeous yet utterly daft head that she’d be perfectly fine on her own for a minute?  She had been in training with me, after all.  Are you saying that I went easy on her?  Maybe it’s my fault; maybe if I’d prepared her better, she would have been able to fight them off.”

“No, I… stop twisting things around!”

“And Emlyn.  Personally, I blame him.  Some job he did on helping Maela develop her ability.  Maybe if he’d worked harder, she could have had a flash of insight, seen what Cole was planning even before it happened.”

I lean back against the wall, unable to stem the relentless flow of words.

“And what about you,” Seef continues.  “Fuck’s sake, you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Maela, keeping her grounded, helping her develop her ability to concentrate and open up her mind’s eye or whatever the hell it is so that she could learn what Emlyn was trying to teach her.  Why don’t you try blaming yourself?”

“I do,” I say sotto voce, but he hears me.

“Well, you shouldn’t.  Fact is, it’s nobody’s fault but Cole’s.  And if we’re fighting each other, we’re not fighting her.”  Seef looks intently at me, utterly serious now.  “Come on, Sharma, we need to be a team.  We won’t find Maela otherwise.  And that means you putting on your big-boy pants and making things up with Jorge.  Besides, you miss him.”

I glare at Seef, but the gesture’s half-hearted.

“Yes, you do,” he nods.  “You’re pissed at Jorge for leaving without a word and feel like he betrayed your friendship.  So, you need to tell him that.  You need to go up to him and say, ‘Jorge, my snuggly wuggly cuddle buddy–” I give Seef the finger, but he plows on – “I wuv ‘ou and I miss ‘ou.  You were a dick, but I forgive you.’  And then you shake hands and Bob’s your uncle.”

I hate the fact that Seef is right.  “If I agree to speak with Jorge when he gets back, will you leave me in peace?”

Seef stands, a saintly smile on his face that I’m dying to wipe off: “My work here is done.”  He really is an exasperating ling sometimes.  A complete bell-end.

“Wait!” I call out as he moves towards the door, remembering my earlier musings.  “Any word yet on the compound the trafficked women were injected with?”

“No, that lead’s gone colder than a witch’s tit.  The US team’s effectively under house arrest, and their operation’s been suspended.”

“Damn!”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.  So we need to stick together.”

I nod distractedly as he leaves the room.

◆◆◆

Later, I’m sitting in the kitchen, nursing a cup of rapidly cooling chai, when the door opens, and Jorge steps in.  He doesn’t notice me, not at first; he’s got his head stuck in his phone, but when he sees me, he recoils.

“Stop!”  I hold up a hand, whether in command or entreaty I don’t know.  What the hell am I doing here?  I came down to wait for him, to catch him before he left for work, and now I don’t know what to say.  And why in God’s name did I make a cup of tea when the situation clearly calls for whiskey?  But I didn’t want to have this conversation half cut. 

Jorge looks at me with dark suspicion.  “Sí?”

“Just… we should talk.”

“There’s nothing to say.”  Jorge shrugs, sliding his phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Yes,” I counter, “there is.”  My mind’s gone blank, though, and I scramble for something – anything – frantically.  I’m blowing this conversation before it’s even begun.  Then, “You were a dick, but I forgive you,” I blurt out.

He stares at me for a moment, and half-huffs, half-laughs through his teeth, shaking his head.  “Sí?  Vale, OK.  Thanks for letting me know.  Good talk.”

“I mean it.”  I may not have expressed myself as coherently as I’d have liked, but the sentiment is right.  “I’m pissed at you – I was pissed at you – I still am.  You ran away.  I know I blamed you for what happened to Maela, but you just took off.  You didn’t speak to me; you didn’t fight back; you just fucking took off and left us – left me – in the lurch.”

I can see Jorge absorbing the blows and hate myself, but the words need to be said, the wound lanced and drained.  “I know,” he says quietly, eyes dark with pain and regret.  “I am sorry.”

“Why?” I demand.  I thought we were friends.  Friends sometimes need to use each other as punching bags; this time it was him; next time it’ll be me.  It’s all part of the unwritten code.

“Why?” he growls, suddenly coming to life.  “Because I couldn’t stand the weight of my own hatred, let alone yours and Emlyn’s and Seef’s.  Do you think I don’t know that everything – everything! – that has happened and might be happening to her is all my fault?  Do you think I haven’t gone over that night in my mind, again and again and again, wishing I’d done things differently?  That I’d made a different decision?  That I’d been a man?  So, yes, I left.  Carajo!”   

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No?  I think it was.”  He gives a bitter laugh.  “Fallon was right there.  That puta was right in front of me, and I didn’t sense a thing.”

“Some people are good at hiding their emotions.  And maybe there were too many emotions, too many to sort through and identify.”

“Maybe,” he answers, unconvinced.

“We were wrong to blame you.”  I can see that now.  It took Seef beating me over the head with it, but, a real man owns up to his mistakes.  “We wanted a scapegoat, and you were it.  We shouldn’t have.”  

“The last thing she did was make a joke.  ‘I’m good, but I’m not that good’, she said.”  Jorge’s eyes are distant as he gazes into another time and place.  “Only she was that good.  In every way.  Crazy and kind and smart and beautiful.  Mi dinamita,” he whispers.

I’ve a sudden, nasty suspicion that he broke the pact and slept with her, and for a moment I’m flooded with pure envy.  I try to push it back, to be grown up about the situation, but he nods.  “I cannot pretend to be sorry,” he says simply.

“Not your fault I’m jealous,” I bite out.  Only… why the fuck didn’t I take my chance when I had it?  And how the fuck can I be thinking about sex at a time like this, when Maela is missing and almost certainly in danger?  Now is not the moment for regrets or recriminations.  I run my fingers through my hair.  “When we get her back, I’ll make her forget she even knew you.”

Jorge gives a faint smile, and I continue: “But first we need to get her back.”  

“Agreed,” Seef observes, coming through the door.

“So, what do we know about Gaia’s UK holdings?” I ask Emlyn, who’s taking off his coat.

“All in major cities,” he answers.

“Nothing in the countryside?”

Emlyn shakes his head: “Not on paper.”

“What about Cole?” Jorge suggests.  “Surely that one has a mansión, a country house?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Seef informs us.  “Just the London townhouse.”

“Which we’ve searched,” I observe.

“The property may not be in Gaia’s or Cole’s name,” Emlyn muses.  “She could be a silent partner.”

“But then we could check all the registered rehab centers, couldn’t we?”

“Yes, but there are hundreds.  It’ll take time.  And wherever this Gaia center is, it isn’t publicly advertised.  It could simply be a private home.  Cole’s too smart to stash the girls somewhere easily traced.  Hell!  She could still have taken them out of the country.  Gaia is a legitimate charity, after all.”

We sit gloomily for a moment, taking in the magnitude of the task.  Just when we thought we’d caught a break, reality reared its ugly head.

I shake myself.  Wallowing won’t do any good.  “So, how’s the hand?”  I turn to Jorge.  “What did the doctor say?”

Jorge looks at his hand consideringly.  It’s in a plastic splint, which I hope is a good sign.  “I’ll have an impressive scar, but there’s no sign of infection.  And the tendon, sí? tendón? hasn’t snapped again or got stuck in the wrong place.”

“What do you mean, ‘the tendon hasn’t snapped again’?  Why would it snap?”  I feel sick; I barely listened when Emlyn described the fight.

“Ah.  It was severed.  But the doctor has repaired it.”

“But?”  There’s a “but”; I can feel it.

“But the tendon.  The flexor?  I may never regain full movement.”  He shrugs, as if he hasn’t just announced that he may have lost a major part of his life.  Jorge’s music is his refuge and his solace; it’s how he expresses himself, says what can’t be said in words.  I’ve eavesdropped on him sometimes, spellbound by the liquid fall of notes, the music catching at my heartstrings, reaching some primeval part of me.  Jorge not play?

“Fuck!” I breathe.  I can’t believe it.

“A price well worth paying,” he nods, “if it’s given us a lead.”    

Boy Scouts and Balloons

Lachy

I am trying, I honestly am, but it’s beginning to border on maudlin in here, and it tugs at my temples, a headache always hovering at the edge of my vision.  The sickening lurch of hope to hopelessness is playing games with all of us; every time the phone rings it’s like a single guitar string has been plucked, vibrating with intensity through the house as we wait for word.  But there is nothing, and more nothing.  I should just go build, finish the last touches on Kai’s hidey-hole out in the woods where she can hopefully get some respite after a long day, where she can drop her shields and just recover, by herself, before coming home to us.  But I’m getting too used to being around other people again, to having family around me.  I’m not by nature a lonely creature – time and tides have driven me to solitude.  Before my isolation, though, I was a family man.  House and hearth and happy meals around a table with loved ones.  I’ve had brotherhoods before – you can’t play D1 football and not have a fraternity.  I’m still incredibly close with a few of them – even occasionally get tickets to see the ones who made it big when their teams are playing in town.  

This newly developing one, though, is different.  It’s unexpected, but not… not unwelcome.  

Sighing, I glance at the door, thinking of what I need to finish out in the woods, then back to my fidgeting friends.  I remember the actual moment I decided to make her her hobbit house.  We were watching Lord of the Rings with Gemms on one of our movie nights.  It was an effort to get Kai to watch it with us – Gemma loved the movies; I loved the books – so between us we managed to talk her out of her comfort zone.  She was not a dragony sort of girl – at the time, anyway.  But oh my God, when she saw Hobbiton, and the little round doors with their green grass roofs, it was like watching her fall in love.  Her eyes got all dreamy in this glassed-over way, and her face went soft.  It was the first time I’d seen her actually dream of something without some kind of caution or pain attached to it.  Just a normal drift away in her mind.  Even when she was describing her childhood bathroom to me, it was colored in sadness.  This, though – well.  I could hear her whispering to Gemma about what she’d do with a house like that, how it would feel – all rounded edges and curves, light pouring in through the window, a wood fire…  What else could I do but make it for her?  

I would carve every piece of wood on this earth and command its shape from my hands to build Kai a world made of her dreams.

An idea strikes me.

“C’mon,” I call to Walker and Jonah.  Both look up at me with blank, almost hopeless expressions, and I frown.  “Now.”

They heave themselves to their feet, as though they each have thousand-pound weights hanging from their shoulders.

“What’s up, Lach?” Walker asks tiredly, 

“You’re going to learn some carpentry,” I reply shortly.

“What?”  Jonah at least looks interested, and I turn to him to explain.

“You need something to do with your hands.  Too much sitting around.”

“Idle hands are the devil’s plaything or something like that?”  There’s a little bite in Walker’s reply, and it’s nice to hear some fire from him.

“Something like that,” I agree, taking them upstairs.  At the top, Jonah freezes for a second, realizing where we’re going, then forces himself to relax and keep walking.  We head down the hall to Kai’s room, where the door has remained closed since she’s been gone.  The air in the room is stale and cedary, like an old, wood chest being opened, and I frown.  She’d hate the smell; Kai likes fresh pine and ocean air, not this close heaviness.  I make a mental note to start coming in and opening the windows so she can taste the sea salt when she gets home.  Motioning for the guys to walk into the room, I stand by the door, waiting as they look around in confusion. 

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Jonah says, faux cheerfulness in his voice.  Bless him for trying.  “What are we looking for?”

I look around the room and sigh.  It’s beautiful – even I can admit that, and I’m usually not satisfied with my work, always seeing something that can be improved.  But my heart was carved into every line in this room.  Even the bed-set, which I’d made before I knew what she’d become to me, is the best I’d ever made, before or since.  As though my soul knew what my mind hadn’t realized yet.             

Still, it’s too empty.  There are little touches missing.  I was waiting for her to fill the space with pieces of herself, but she is afraid to take up too much room in life for herself.  She’ll demand it for others, knock down cities to make safe spaces for the kids she protects, but for herself?  She sips oxygen, scared to breathe too deeply in anyone else’s air.  I didn’t have time to convince her before she left that I would suffocate myself if it meant she got to inhale even once more before the world imploded.  

“You’re looking for what’s missing,” I say gruffly, emotion clear in my words, and I have to clear my throat to continue.  

“You mean, other than Kai?” Jonah replies, and for some reason, it’s funny, not heartbreaking.  Or maybe it’s funny and heartbreaking.  Walker snorts, so we’re evidently all deep in the morbid humor these days.

“Exactly.  That’s actually what I mean.  Kai is missing from her room.  I’ve put in touches that make it special for her, but she needs… more.  Just – look around.  Find something that’s not there, that you can make from wood and metal, and I’ll help you craft it.  Then when she gets back, she’ll have more of a footprint here.”

Jonah immediately gets to work, moving around with a thoughtful look, examining every inch of the room.  Walker just stands, glancing around almost helplessly.

“What’s up?” I ask quietly, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know where to start.”

I’m about to reply when Jonah calls out from the bathroom.  “An octopus?” and I grin, a fractured sort of happiness cutting me.

“I can tell you the story while we whittle.  I don’t think she’ll mind.”

He comes back out, takes one last look around, and nods decisively.  “Okay.  She doesn’t have a jewelry box or anything.  I think she had one at her and Gemma’s place, but it wasn’t hers – it was just, like, a box, I think.  That’s what I’d like to make.  I’m guessing from looking around that she likes clean lines, greys and whites or sea colors.  Can I do a… I don’t know.  A kind of driftwood box where the sides are in different colored woods?  Maybe an indented top covered in glass, with some coral or something beneath it…”  His voice trails off as he draws it in his head.

I nod.  “Sketch it out, and we’ll come up with something.”

“Okay.  And, um…”  He hesitates, staring at the top of the empty bureau, fidgeting with the leather cuff on his wrist.  “Can you help me figure out the inside?  It’ll need drawers and sections for different jewelry.”

“Of course.  She doesn’t have a ton, but what she has she treasures, and I know most of it, so I know what she’ll need.  Gemms can help as well.  She’d probably love that.  I know at least that Kai has some necklaces, the earrings and bracelet from Deo, a few other small things.”

Without looking at me, he drops his voice.  “And it will need space for rings.  Or a ring.  At least one ring.”

There’s a heavy pause, the air in the room pressing in around us, and then, “Five rings would be too many rings.  She’d look like Mrs. Gotrocks.  So probably one ring.  With a special design or something.”  Walker’s thoughtful, head cocked.  “That doesn’t mean she won’t have other rings, but if you’re saying… like… space for a… um… unique ring…  I think maybe… one?  Lachy, what do you think?”

I think I never imagined having a conversation like this in my entire life.  But, here we are.  “I think… one tattoo, one ring, one family.  We have to at least run it by Deo, though.”

“Run what by Deo?”  His voice is exhausted, hollows beneath his eyes, but he grins when Jonah jumps in surprise.  “Getting laaaaazy there, Shotridge.  What if I was a baddie?”

Jonah scoffs unconvincingly.  “Please.  I knew you were there.  I was just lost in thought.”

Deo smirks, a welcome sight, to be honest.  I remember a time not too long ago when we’d get nothing from him but blank walls.  Now, bit by bit, he’s letting things slip through, not holding himself back as much.  It’s hard for him to do, and he’s fighting against years and years of muscle memory, but he is fighting.  He takes a long, tired sip of coffee, then turns to me.  “What’s going on?”

“It’s too late for coffee, D.  You’ll never fall asleep tonight,” I chide gently, and he salutes sarcastically in response.

“Yes Mom,” he snarks, then takes another purposefully loud drink, never looking away from me, like a petulant teenager.  I don’t want to grin back, but I can’t help it.  Ever since our tattoo, he’s loosened up, and it’s fascinating getting to see the side of him that previously was only for Kai.

“I’m sending them to Boy Scout Camp,” I reply, rolling my eyes.  “They’re going to learn some basic carpentry skills and make things to help decorate the room.”

He nods seriously.  “Fun.  I’m in.”

“Have you ever done any carpentry before?”  I don’t know why the thought surprises me.

Deo shakes his head.  “No.  But I used to whittle a lot as a kid.  So I’m down for it.”

“I did, too,” Walker chimes in unexpectedly.  “One summer I spent in the mountains, when I was little.  I didn’t have a great homelife, and, well.  Anyway.  I learned to whittle that summer.  Haven't since.  But I loved it.  It holds good memories.”

“Why didn’t you keep it up after you left?” Jonah asks quietly, voice respectful, and Walker hesitates, then sighs.

“There’s no way to do this without being ripped open completely, is there?” he asks cryptically, then continues without waiting for an answer.  “It wasn’t safe to have a knife where I grew up.  Or, maybe I should say, it wasn’t safe to have a pocketknife.  They don’t open quickly enough.”

“What did you need to run by me?” Deo questions after a moment, taking the focus off Walker, who shoots him a grateful look.

“Oh.  Yeah.  I’m going to make Kai a jewelry box, and…” Jonah trails off.  “Well.  Jesus.  Okay.  So… I thought there should be a space for rings, maybe?”  His voice is climbing; you can hear the unsurety in the hesitation between each word.

“And?” Deo prompts gently.  “As far as I know she doesn’t have any rin… oh.  Oh.”  He sounds stunned.

Jonah barrels on, now that it’s out in the open.  “And I didn’t know if, like, there should be a space for one featured ring of maybe a special design, or like… five rings?  Four?  Five?”  He’s choking on the words, but pushes them out, then exhales like he’s run a marathon.  

“What did you all say?” Deo asks, his voice very, very quiet.

Walker just holds up his index finger, steady and unshaking, which Deo stares at for a long moment before his lips quirk in an unexpected smile.  “Not the finger I’m used to you showing me, Donovan,” he quips, then turns to me.

“One,” I reply shortly, and he nods.

“Okay.  I – one it is,” he states firmly, and the entire room freezes, as though we’ve all taken a single breath together.  

There’s a long, long pause, before, “Calm down, everyone.”  Walker’s voice is unexpectedly loud, pulling us out of the moment of startling realization.  “There are, like, a million other steps first.  Like, oh, I don’t know.  Finding her.  Bringing her home.  Telling her we love her.  You know, that sort of thing.”

Jonah nods immediately in agreement, but there is noticeable silence from both Hideo and myself.  Both Walker and Jonah turn to us expectantly, and I inhale deeply.  Oh God.  I do not want to have to do what I’m about to have to do, I think, looking at the expression on Walker’s face.  It’s best to just get it over with though.  “Hey.  Walker?  Um.  Jonah?”  I’m as gentle as I can be, but I can see they know what I’m going to say before I say it, their shoulders tightening.  Walker focuses on me, shooting me an almost betrayed look.

“You already told her you love her?”  He sounds half-accusatory, half-stunned.  “That’s not something we’re doing together?  Like, don’t we need to plan this shit out as a group?”

“I didn’t really think it through that far, Walker,” I reply softly.  “It was before all of this, and…”  Exhaling slowly, I try to think through my next words carefully.  His love of family is so new, and so deep, it’s like first love sometimes, and I don’t want to ruin that for him.  I want him to always feel that family, this family, is a solid, cohesive unit.  That this time he won’t get left out or left behind.  “I think there are some things we don’t need to decide as a group.  Those things which are more… personal… should be motivated by your own feelings.  There are going to be times that have to be guided by where you are.  Not where we are.  But it doesn’t change anything between us.”

Walker looks put out.  If he were anyone else, I’d say he was pouting, and when he replies, his voice borders on sullen.  “Well, I don’t know.  I thought we were like… a brotherhood or something.  Like, we’re supposed to do that shit as…”  He waves his hands around to indicate all of us.

God bless Hideo, because he somehow manages to keep his face placid, although I see affectionate amusement simmering below the surface.  “Did you… did you have a plan for how that was going to happen, Walker?”

Walker, evidently, does have a plan, because he immediately stands up straight and puts his hands on the chairback in front of him, like he’s about to deliver a speech or address a council of war.  It’s clear he’s put thought into whatever he’s about to say.  “I mean, we needed to work out the details, together, but I thought Jonah and Lachy could cook her dinner.  You’d be tasked with getting her favorite flowers and those little cakes she loves from that place you go.  And her mocha, probably.  I’d do the decorations.”

I hear Deo choke on his coffee, coughing hard, and we all pause to check on him before Jonah replies, “You’d do decorations?”  The man sounds poleaxed.

“Yeah, like… I don’t know.  Balloons and shit or something.  Maybe streamers?”  His voice drifts slightly as his eyes go unfocused, imagining the decor in his head.

“You… want balloons there?  For dinner?  And then we would… give her dessert and tell her we love her?  As a group?”  I know I sound like an idiot.  I know I do.  But I can’t help it.  I honestly can’t process what is happening right now.  Balloons.

Walker nods, looking really proud of himself, and I’ll be damned if none of us has the heart to say anything other than, “Sounds good, brother.”  Hideo tries his best to reply in an encouraging tone, and I can only hope that Walker doesn’t hear the wobble in his voice.

“But if Lachy’s already told her, that ruins it.”  And he sounds so hurt that I can feel Deo’s hesitancy before he speaks.

“Ah… I’m really sorry, Donovan.  I… I already told her too.”

“Well GOD DAMN!”  Walker slams the chair back and spins to face Jonah accusingly.  “Did YOU fucking tell her too?  Does she fucking know everyone loves her ass but me?”  And suddenly, behind his words, I can hear the real fear, the real worry that we might not get Kai back, and that she’ll never know…

“Naw, man.  I didn’t have the chance.”  Jonah’s voice is soothing, but Walker still looks ridiculously close to breaking, like somehow the news that Deo told her was the last straw for the taciturn man who has been fractured for months.  “I… I have an idea, though.  Let’s plan something big.  You and me together.  And they can’t come.  For when Kai gets home and we can tell her.”  He jerks his head toward Deo and me; we both try to appear suitably chastened.

Walker replies slowly, staring at the floor and clearly thinking it through.  “So… it would be just you and me, and we’d… we could take her out and stuff.  Somewhere really special.”

“Yes!” Jonah says encouragingly, and thank God Walker is still focused on the floor, because Jonah is openly trying not to smile when he continues, “And we can have all… all the balloons… you want.”  

Walker looks mildly mollified and looks up.  “Fine,” he growls.  “We’ll plan it out.  You do love her?  Like you want to tell her that?”  

My heart cracks unexpectedly at his question, deep fissures and canyons of pain breaking my ribs, piercing my lungs.  The amusement drains from Jonah’s face, and he looks sick to his stomach.  It’s almost impossible to hear his reply.  “Yeah, man.  I love her,” he whispers, and Walker leans forward, clasping a hand on Jonah’s shoulder, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“I love her too, Jonah.  And we’ll find her, and we’ll tell her.”  And the confidence and surety in his words somehow fill those holes inside me, and suddenly I’m overwhelmingly glad that Walker’s on my team, balloons and all.

A rapid beep-beep-beep breaks the silence, and Deo grabs his phone quickly, looks at the screen, and frowns.  “Unknown,” he mutters, then makes up his mind and answers.  Putting the phone on speaker, he holds up a hand, warning us to be silent.  “Tanaka.”

A woman’s voice spills from the phone, words tumbling over each other.  “Don’t talk; just listen; no names,” she commands, and then there’s a flurry of sound before she yells at someone in the background, “Shut your fucking mouth, dude!  Jesus Christ and all his saints.  What?  I told you I’m making that call!”

Flores’s angry voice is oddly tinny and weirdly hollow.  I don’t have time to process it, though, because there is the sound of a brief scuffle with lots of muffled swearing, and then Marco cuts in abruptly.  “Any word?”  No one replies for a second because we’re not entirely sure who he is talking to, and he snaps out, “Hello?  Any word?”

“I hate that kid,” Walker mumbles, almost silently, but clearly Marco has the hearing of a bat because he snarks back, “Fuck you, asshole.  Go focus on another bartender while your woman handles your shit.  Any.  Word?”  He’s angry and anxious, and I almost feel bad for him, but he’s not one of us.  So he doesn’t get to step into our space.

Deo answers him cooly.  “No word.”

“God damn!” Marco swears, and then a second scuffle, Flores shouting, and then a pause as she composes herself.

“I honestly don’t know how my girl puts up with these guys,” she huffs.  “Don’t talk,” she commands again, now much more serious.  “You guys need to sort your shit out.  All your lines are tappity-tap-tapped.  So hellllooooo to whatever fucker is listening on the other end, in case I’m not as good as I hope I am.  That’s why it’s taken so long to get back to you.”  Deo’s eyes narrow, as though she’s confirmed a suspicion he had, and he and Walker exchange dark looks.  “My line is safe, obvs, but I have no interest in playing any games with people who have the kind of tech that went into monitoring you.  I have a static burst covering this conversation, but I’m telling you right now I don’t know if it will be enough.  If nothing else, it should take them 24–48 hours to take apart the layers, but whoever is doing this shit has skill.  Big Bear?  Check your cameras and system because I wouldn’t trust them anymore.  Anything that can be wirelessly connected or hardwired from a distance I would reconsider depending on.”  

I nod, guessing I’m “Big Bear”.  Christ.  That’s a lot of tech to shut down and will leave us completely exposed.  Everything other than the fencing, but I’m going to assume if they can hack into my systems, then they’ll be able to cut power to my grid.  Thank God for generators.  

Jonah inhales as though he is going to say something, and Flores cuts him off.  “No sound from your end.  It makes it harder,” she says cryptically.  “Sunshine, I’m sending you info in an encrypted email.  I don’t trust that it can’t be hacked.  It shouldn’t be able to be hacked.  But I wouldn’t stake my rep on it.  Turn everything off.  You hear me?  Nothing stays on that has Bluetooth, wireless, cameras, data plans.  Nothing.  Unplug that shit.  No PlayStation, no landlines.  Go full Amish, yeah?  Willy Wonka that shit.  Nobody goes in; nobody goes out.  Damn it.  Times up.  Good luck.”  

And then, silence.

We all exchange looks and move as one through the house, unplugging and turning off everything Flores suggested.  The perimeter security cameras, laptops, desktops… everything.  For good measure we turn off the lights too, and then in silent consensus, walk down to the dock and sit.  We remain unspeaking as we wait for Jonah, who pulls out his phone, the only one we haven’t turned off, and opens his email, using cellular data instead of wireless.  The screen flashes twice, then a brief message appears, which he reads out in a near whisper.  “Info from hard drive: Sacred Arches Retreat and Spa.  Europe.  Country and city unknown.  Slow movement on the other project.  Careful steps being taken, but progress is happening.  No contact from your side is safe.  You don’t have long to flee the coop before the foxes come to your door.  Get the fuck out.”  

Deo frowns, looking indecisive, then, pressing his lips together in a tight line, takes Jonah’s phone, copies the name and location from the email, and pastes them in a WhatsApp message.  Jonah’s eyes widen in surprise, but Walker nods.  “Quickest and safest, but I wouldn’t trust it after this.”  Glancing at Jonah, he explains.  “It’s end-to-end encryption, so if anyone’s tracking, they’ll be able to tell a message has been sent but shouldn’t be able to see the contents.  Shouldn’t.  It’s a risk, but–”  He stops talking abruptly when Jonah’s phone lights up, an answering message coming in.  

There are three innocuous emojis on the screen, just a crown, a snowflake, and an eagle, followed quickly by a second message which just says “John Masefield”.  Hideo stares at the screen, then deletes all the messages and turns the phone off.

“Right,” he says shortly.  “Lachy, we’ve got to go.  I’m sorry.”

Fair Winds and Following Seas

Hideo

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am.  I can’t imagine how it would feel to be left behind.  But if we’re not here, Lachy should be left alone.  And we clearly can’t stay.  I think over Emlyn’s cryptic message, but we’ll have to figure it out later.  For now, our focus has to be on getting off-island without being seen or tracked.  Clearly the game is changing, the board unknown, and our position is untenable at best.

“You’re… sorry?”  His voice, always bass, always thunder, is something deeper now, more a feeling than a sound, and it has both Jonah and Walker leaning forward, on edge.  “Did you just imply that you’re leaving, and… what?  I’m just going to stay here?”

“We need to leave, Lach,” I reply quietly, hoping he’ll hear what I’m trying to say.  “If the guidance Flores sent us is accurate, it’s a lead, sure, but also a warning.  So we get off-island as quickly as possible, lose our tails, and figure out Emlyn’s message.  If nothing else, we know we’re heading somewhere in Europe.”  Rubbing a tired hand across my face, I lose myself in planning for a moment.  “We don’t have time to figure it out right now, obviously.  So Jonah?  Walker?  Let’s pack up and head out immediately.  Nothing heavy – essentials only.  Limit it to a backpack.  All weapons will have to be left behind.  No phones, computers… just cash.  Take ID, but leave anything with a chip, so no credit cards.  What else?  Lachy will have to shred any pertinent files, so if there’s anything that has to be destroyed, let’s get it together.  Probably worthwhile to include the electronics on that list.  Backup anything you want saved to external drives, and then we’ll torch the computers.  Right now, I think they only have the team in their sights.”  I come back to the present moment and turn to Lachy.  “Whoever they are – Babylon or Gaia or Kronos.  And you’re not part of that.  So you should be okay if you stay here.  You should be safe.”

His answering exhale is a dragon breathing fire.  “I’m not part of that?”

Walker interrupts, trying to help.  “Lach.  Of course you’re part of… Hideo is talking about the team, not the family.  And if we have to travel, you said you get the headaches…”  

Lachy hasn’t moved, stone on the water, the rest of the world rippling around his massive frame.  “The team is the family.  They’re not separate entities anymore.”

And if that isn’t the cold truth, I don’t know what is.  I just don’t know what to do.  There are too many moving pieces on the board, too many players.  It’s gone from a game of chess to Unmatched Legends or Catan.  Shouldn’t we protect the people we can?  Or should we put all of us at risk?  “If something happens, at least we’d have you in reserve,” I offer.  “We’d have someone as a backup… you and Gemma could–”

Lachy interrupts with a sharp bark of unamused laughter.  “You honestly think Gemma will stay behind if you have a bead on Kai?  Or that it’s safe to leave her behind?  You’re smarter than that, Tanaka.”  Standing, he turns his back on us, facing out toward the dark Sound.

Jonah lays a hand on my arm to get my attention.  “Lachy can handle a flight.  We’ve been working on it.  He’ll get a headache for sure, but he shouldn’t be incapacitated.  I don’t think it’s a good idea to separate, for what it’s worth.”

I’m wavering between what I’ve been trained to think is right and what I feel in my gut is the correct move.  On the one hand, it’s the smart play to keep someone in reserve.  On the other, it leaves us exposed, and we’d be banking on the idea that, if we weren’t here, Lachy and Gemma would be left alone, which is a risk.  I’m still debating, when Lachy turns back around and sinks to his heels in front of Walker and me.  He locks eyes with us, a cold look I’ve never seen before clear on his face.

“Tanaka.  Donovan,” he begins seriously, and a chill runs down my spine at the certainty in his voice.  “I want you to listen to me.”  Neither of us speaks, sitting prey-still, hearing the sleeping predator wake up.  “I need you to understand me on this.  If you ever try to keep me from Kai, I’ll kill you.”

It’s not a threat.  That’s plain as day.  Threats rarely have follow-through, are meant to intimidate.  And he’s not trying to scare us.  He’s just stating a fact, which makes it all the more terrifying, saying it in the same bland way that you would tell someone the sky is blue or that water is wet.  It is petrifying in its simplicity.  Walker clearly feels the same, barely breathing as Lachy reaches out a massive hand and pats him gently on the knee.

“We are a brotherhood, and I’ll protect each of you with my life; you have my word.  But Kai is primus inter pares.  If I have to stand on your shoulders and drown us all to keep her head above water, I will.  I’d go down with you, and I won’t ever hesitate to do what I think necessary to keep our family safe, but Kai is my soul.  And if you cleave a man’s soul from his body, there is no telling what he might do.”

There is a poised silence in the woods, as if everything in the world is bearing witness to the promise he is making.  Even the water is still, the gentle lapping from earlier no longer audible.  

“Is that clear to you?” he asks us, voice so low it is a vibration in our chests and nothing more.  Both of us nod in response.  “It shouldn’t be a problem,” he says, leaning back slightly but still not breaking eye contact.  “Morality is only complex to immoral people.  And we all have the same conscience, the same angel sitting on our shoulders whispering in our ears.  Hmmm?  So now that that’s settled, we can move forward from this brief moment of ugliness.  Together.  As long as we understand each other.”

It’s not a question.  It’s a statement.  We’re together as long as we know that Kai is the center of this spinning circle on which we stand.  That Galileo was wrong – the Earth doesn’t orbit the sun.  Instead, maybe the universe and its wonders can be stilled down to this simple thought – all the known and unknown in our cosmos revolve around a pair of liquid brown eyes and a Cheshire cat smile.  

I don’t even have to consider my answer.  “Do you have a passport?”
He smiles, relaxing.  “Funny you should ask.  I have an idea.”

◆◆◆

By morning, we are gone – all of us.  Ghosts on the wind, lost in the early fog sitting heavy on the Sound, leaving nothing behind but the shadows of who we were yesterday, in piles of burnt ash and melted metal.  All ties to who we used to be before this have been cut – there is no going back from this point.  There is only tomorrow now, and we move forward together, as one.  

Happiness and Poison

Kailani

I dream in purple.  Everything dances around me in a shimmering haze of lavender fields, vibrant indigo, mulberry, orchid, heliotrope.  Plum cascades down mountain waterfalls, heather shadows soften the corners of my room.  Every neuron in my body stretches out, painful and parched, searching for the right color, the thick, shiny, viscous amethyst that will make everything taste right again.  

Purple is the color of happiness, of forgetting, of amnesia and contentment and a few hours of lost, blurry bliss.  It’s the feel of gentle hands and velveteen rabbits, where things that aren’t real become real for a little, precious time.  It’s the sound of music obscuring the click-clack of nurses’ shoes and the moans of other patients at Mt. Ida.  It’s garden walks with Zale, movies and popcorn and real coffee and no more hope, just simple acceptance.  Every purple day is simple; it’s me and a friend and tiny glimpses of an almost-life.  I would eat, drink, breathe purple every day for the rest of my life if I could.  And it hurts, of course it hurts – don’t all good things come at a cost?  Can you even taste honey’s sweetness if you don’t know the bee’s sting?  But I’m getting better at it…  I don’t scream now.  As much.  I don’t scream now as much.  Because if I don’t scream, if I’m good and behave and act right, maybe, maybe every day will be a purple day, instead of blue or red or black.  Those pills only bring pain.

There’s only one shade of purple I don’t like.  It’s the deep merlot of wine dregs when you’ve finished a glass, the stain left by blackberry jam, the reddish-brownish of old blood.  That shade makes me feel sick to my stomach, makes my brain hurt in the back, dark caverns where I’m told not to go by the therapists.  The place where my dreams from before live… not from before.  There was no before.  But what I imagined was before.  Where five, sometimes six, forms walk through my nighttimes, ink blots of violence in my otherwise unicorn dreamscape.  I can see their fingers tearing out magenta trees, ripping through layers of cotton-candy flowers, all trying to come and grab me.  I can’t see their faces anymore, and Enid says that’s progress.  Their faces are just shadows.  But I know their shapes.  I know their sounds.  And I know that if they could, they wouldn’t let me stay in this cloudy haze of mauveine and kingfisher daisy. 

The alarm goes off, and I swim out of my stupor, blinking in the harsh light of the morning.  Today will not be a purple day.  I can tell already.  The blankets are scratchy, and it’s early.  No sleeping in.  No champagne fizz.  Nothing.  My skin already feels itchy with need, and I haven’t gotten out of bed yet.  Maela’s bed is empty, corners neatly done, pillow perfectly centered.  

Right.  Right.  I can do this, and if I do it correctly, maybe…  I try to hop out of bed, but everything is dragging already.  My hands are shaking as I pull up the sheets, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get them to stop long enough to sharpen the corners.  I try, though.  I try my hardest.  As soon as the morning nurse walks in, I can tell it wasn’t enough.

“Oh, Kailani.  You’re not even dressed yet?”  Disappointment drips from her voice, ugly, black rivers of tar, sticking to my skin, and I absentmindedly try to peel it off, shifting from foot to foot.

“The alarm just went off…” I try to explain.  I don’t set the alarm.  I don’t touch the clock.  I just do what I’m supposed to do.  She shakes her head with a quiet huff. 

“That just won’t do as an excuse.  Get dressed.  Quickly, quickly now.  You have a meeting this morning.  Comb your hair.  I’ll be waiting in the hallway.  You have five minutes.”

Comb my hair?  My hand drifts up to my scalp before I snatch it down again.  She’s taunting me.  I don’t have enough hair to comb, and she knows it.  It’s a subtle punishment, telling me to do tasks she knows I can’t.  They’ll watch me though, so I’ll have to go through the motions, running a brush over my bare head… nausea surges up so fiercely and suddenly that I have to swallow hard and breathe deeply to avoid throwing up. 

I’m shaking harder now, vibrating really, unsteady on my feet as I grab my outfit and sway towards the bathroom, like a sailor on leave after months at sea.  Getting dressed quickly, I clean my teeth, then steel myself to look in the mirror.  You can do this, I say quietly to myself.  Just pick up the brush.  It will be worse for you if you don’t.  Shuddering, the memory of the last time I ignored their suggestion to “brush my hair” runs through my body.  It’s a memory so deeply ingrained it doesn’t live in my brain, but my bones.  Pick up the damn brush, Kailani! I command myself.  I can hear a steady tick-tick-tick from the other room and know I’m running out of time.  Please.  Please pick it up.  There’s not time!  Forcing my hand to move, I grab the brush and meet my eyes in the mirror.  Slowly, methodically, I run it over my bare head, a mockery of movement, a sick pantomime.  My face is calm, jaw clenched, but I can’t do anything to stem the tide of tears flooding my cheeks.  Over and over and over I brush, ‘til I reach 100, and my skin is red.

Shaking, I put the brush neatly back in its holder and walk unsteadily out of the room to meet the waiting nurse.  

Today is not a purple day.

For Our Brave Boys

Emlyn

I stare at the newsreader droning on about yet another political scandal.  Some MP has been caught taking bribes in exchange for a government contract and used the money to build a duck house.  Or heat his stables.  Or something.  Conservative?  Labour?  They’re only distinguishable by the color of their ties.  “A plague on both their houses,” I mutter.

It’s been a long morning.  Hell, it’s been a long week.  Aside from the never-ending game of hide and seek we play with foreign spies, there’s been a worrying rise in the number of state-sponsored cyberattacks.  I’m having to fit my research on treatment centers around intelligence gathering; now that I’m no longer seconded to Babylon, the powers that be expect longer reports and quicker results.  Sometimes, I feel like a piece of tracing paper, I’m stretched so thin.  But I’ll never give up.  Somewhere, out there, Maela’s waiting for me.

When did she take up residence in my heart?  She moved in piece by piece, a gamine flick of her braid here, a wrinkle of her freckled nose there, so quietly and stealthily I didn’t notice, until one day I looked down to see her ensconced, a warm weight against my chest.  Her smile lit up every chamber.  And now the hearths have gone dark and cold.  I sigh and let my eyes close.  Five minutes.  I’ll take five minutes and then fire up the computer.  I’m not due back at Thames House until after lunch.

“... in an unprecedented display of generosity, the Gaia Organization has announced that it will make its proprietary version of ketamine available for free to serving military personnel.  Ms. Cole, please tell us more about what this drug does and how it is used.”

I bolt upright so quickly a nerve twangs in my neck.  “Fuck!”

On the screen, Elizabeth is smiling amiably.  “Thank you for inviting me on to your program.  I’m delighted to be here.”  She turns full on to the camera.  “Like ketamine, our drug is an anesthetic, designed primarily for use in surgery, particularly in emergency procedures.  But our drug doesn’t raise blood pressure and so can be given in cases of head trauma or heightened intracranial pressure or where there is a risk of myocardial infarction.”  

“Myocardial infarction – a heart attack, in layman's terms,” the presented interjects.

“That’s right,” Elizabeth nods.  “The drug also has a miniscule half-life, with very little risk of addiction.  And the side effects appear to be negligible.”

“Amazing!” the presenter gushes.  “So how soon can it be rolled out?”

“Well, Elizabeth demurs, “we’ve only recently begun second-phase clinical trials, but they’re going well, so we’re hoping to move to phase three soon; then, of course, we’ll need to receive formal regulatory approval.  So, things are a little way off!” she laughs.  “But our ultimate goal, once we’ve recouped development costs, is to make the results public, so that the drug can be manufactured and distributed cheaply to those in most need.  We’ve also seen some promising indications that it can be used as an antidepressant and in the treatment of PTSD and bipolar disorder.  We’ll be seeking secondary approval for those applications, should the trials progress as hoped.”

“And you’ll be licensing it to the military for free.”

“That’s right.  To our brave men and women in uniform.  If they are willing to sacrifice their lives for us, surely we can sacrifice a little profit for them?”  Elizabeth gazes soulfully at the camera, while the presenter looks on adoringly.

I can’t take any more.  “Lying, manipulative, conniving bitch!  I stab my finger on the remote, cutting off the interview.

“Don’t forget ‘calculating’, ‘deceitful’, and ‘duplicitous’,” Seef observes sourly.

I turn to the door.  “You heard?”

“Just the tail end.”  He comes into the room and sits down heavily.

“You realize she’s made herself and Gaia even more untouchable?”    

“The thought had ricocheted across my mind.”

“Any chance of getting Babylon to reconsider has just gone abseiling out the window.”

“They think they can use her.  And Magnustiltskin has undoubtedly concluded that working with Elizabeth, getting access to her research, is ultimately for the greater good.  Let’s face it: she probably does have information that could move Babylon light years ahead,” Seef admits grudgingly.  “It’s just how she obtains it that’s the problem.  She wanted access to Maela’s and Kailani’s abilities, so she kidnapped them when she realized bribery wouldn’t work.  People like Cole and Magnus think they’re more intelligent, more evolved, and that the normal rules of morality don’t apply because they’re so God-damned special and superior.  Being a bad person doesn’t preclude doing great things.”

“Wagner and The Ring Cycle.”

“Voldemort and his spell shit.”

I’m surprised into a bark of laughter.  “Trust you to lower the tone.  Your parents must be so proud.”  I happen to know Seef attended an exclusive private school before joining the Marines.

“Someone needs to keep things real.  And opera, really?  Bunch of women in horns warbling about how some bloke whose nuts need adjusting has done them wrong.”

“I’m not even going to try to parse that.”

“And then they go and top themselves.  Why don’t they ever knee him in the groin, tell him he’s a wanker, and then have a refreshing drink?”

“Where would be the pathos in that?  And the music is sublime.”

“Hmm, yes,” he admits, as if pained.  “That one in the shaving advert isn’t bad.”

“Give me strength,” I beg the ceiling.  

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.  Giuseppe would have been chuffed to bits.”

“You know Verdi?”  I sit upright.

“The man wrote the soundtrack for 300 and Mad Max.  Of course I do.  Now, can we get back to work?”

“What are we going to do about Cole?”

“Other than what we’re already doing?  Nothing.  Not after the stunt she’s just pulled.  She’s already in bed with Babylon, and now she’s pulled the military in for a threesome.  Or a foursome, if you consider that James Tennireef has a good chance of being the next president of the United States.”

“Not to mention the media, the donor class, and advocacy groups across the world.”

“It’s a regular orgy.  Let’s hope it makes them careless.”

“You have anything?”  I haven’t heard from Walker for a few days.  Not since MI5 replaced my phone.  Something about Russian malware.  Good thing they don’t know about the other one.  At least, I don’t think they do.  But Walker doesn’t either.  Knowing that Babylon, and now apparently MI5, might be listening in has meant that I’ve had to keep up the facade of running down useless leads, of entertaining the idea that the girls disappeared voluntarily, of slipping back into the role of company man.  Trying to send coded messages when we never had time to work out and share a code has been a slow road to insanity.  I hope he was able to work out my last message.  When we realized we were being monitored, I started making plans, but I couldn’t take the chance of sending the Rosetta Stone, even encrypted.  I hope one of them’s good at puzzles.   

“Anything yet on ‘Sacred Arches’?”

“Not a dicky bird.  You?”

At the terse shake of his head, I issue a heartfelt “fuck” under my breath.  “Do we have anything beyond the fact that it’s apparently an exclusive, European destination?”

“Not even a Cumberland sausage.  ‘The Sacred Arches Retreat and Spa’.  Would make a great gift for that special someone.”

I bring up the list of U.K. spas, salons, and treatment centers – anything that might possibly qualify – and run a quick search.  “It’s not here.”  I didn’t really expect any differently, but I still feel a pang of disappointment when the results come up empty.  Again.  “Ireland?”

Seef grimaces.  “Maybe?  If Gaia owns the place, though, they could be using an English name to attract an international clientele.  That’s the trouble with English being a lingua franca.”

“Look at you and your big words,” I joke, in an effort to take my mind off the sheer magnitude of the task confronting us.  If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.  I’d been counting on Elizabeth keeping the girls in the U.K.

“I can read and count to ten,” he ripostes, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.  “Right.  I need to head out.  There’s an international delegation coming to London – some trade deal – and we need to see what the French are up to.”

“You realize I’ve spent the past week trying to deal with people like you?”

“Ours is not to wonder why…” he shrugs.  “See you back here later.”

“Ours is but to do or die,” I finish the quotation softly, as the door closes, and stare for a moment into nothingness.

◆◆◆

Later, much later, I find myself watching the darkness again.  Not that London ever really settles to dusk.  The lights of the metropolis can be seen from outer space, a jewel-studded leviathan crawling across the land.

I toss back a shot of Macallan.  Today has been an exercise in frustration.  I’ve only had time to run a few searches; the afternoon was taken up with meetings.  But I’ve had no hits.  “Sacred Arches” doesn’t exist on the internet or any government register.

“Fuck!” I suddenly hiss.

“Language!” I can hear Eadric tut disapprovingly.  “What would Mater say?”

I pour myself two fingers and raise the glass to the empty chair beside me.  “You’re one to talk.”  I pause for a moment, savoring the burn.  “She’s still in denial, you know, she and the major general both.  It’s why they never visit…”

“My grave?”

“I know you might have thought that they didn’t care, at the funeral, when they didn’t even cry.  Mother kept complimenting the vicar on the flower arrangements, do you remember?  And insisting people have a sandwich afterwards.  Smoked Salmon, Egg and Cress, and Coronation Chicken – you got a proper send-off!  She couldn’t stop her hands shaking, though.  And Father, well, he’s always been gruff, hasn’t he, but I caught his lip trembling when the organist started on ‘Abide with Me’.  God, that’s a fucking awful song.  It just drones on and on.”  I take another sip of whiskey and fall silent.

“And you?”

“Me?  You know how it is, Eadric, with the job.  I haven’t had a chance to come by.  But I will.  Soon.”

“I’ll be seeing you, then.”

“Don’t go,” I whisper, but he slips away into the lengthening shadows.

For a long time, I sit, cradling the glass in my hands, until my thoughts finally still and my eyes grow heavy.  Then I get up and, as I’ve done every night since that one night, light the slim, white candle waiting in the window.  The wick flares to life, a tiny flame holding back the gloom, holding all my hopes and sorrows.  “Please, Maela,” I murmur, “please find your way home soon.  I miss you.”          

APRIL

Trying to remember you

Is like carrying water

In my hands a long distance

Across sand.  

⁓ Stephen Dobyns

T.A.R.T.

Maela

In the year 490 BCE, Darius the Great invaded Greece.  The two armies met on the plains of Attica, where for five days a heroic struggle was waged.  At the end, legend says, Pheidippides ran from the battlefield to Athens, bringing news of a great victory over the Persians.  “Chairete, nikomen!” – “Joy to you, we have won!” – he cried, before collapsing and dying of exhaustion.  And so began the marathon.  Twenty-six miles.  One mile for every year of my life.  A life spent running.  Running to and running away: success, money, love; sadness, reproach, regret.  The warp and weft of my story.  And where has it led me?  To a sanatorium.  But not for long.

“Alright Maela, stick your arm out please.”

I don’t look when the needle goes in; I don’t even flinch anymore.  I used to stare – somehow, the pain was less if I could see exactly what was happening, see the moment the needle pricked the skin, see the blood well up in the vial.  But now the process is routine.  Dr. Phos needs a lot of blood.  Blood and scans.  He needs to check how I’m responding to the new medicine, if the new medicine’s playing nicely with the old medicines, if I’m developing any clots, if the right areas of my brain are lighting up when he plugs me into the mains.  He’s really, I think, squinting at his back when he goes to label the vial, quite ghoulish.  And yet, he looks so normal.  Innocuous.  He doesn’t have bulging eyes or bird’s nest hair, the stereotypical markers of the mad scientist; he’s just a very average, white-haired man in a long, white lab coat, pale eyes peering at the world through round spectacles.  But the way he hunches over the microscope, whistling through his teeth, or settles my head in the PET scanner, with his soft, cold fingers, is unnerving.  It’s almost as if he were performing a religious ritual, offering up my body to the gods of science.  I won’t miss him.

“And how is everything looking today, doctor?”

“Elizabeth!  I mean, Ms. Cole.  Please, come in.  I wasn’t expecting you.”  Dr. Phos hastens to clear a chair, but she raises one slim hand, forestalling him.  Nurse Cole isn’t in uniform today. She’s looking rather elegant in a navy pantsuit paired with low, matching heels, her dark hair styled with a wave. 

“I’m just passing through, on my way to a meeting with the board,” she gestures at herself, “and thought I’d pop in to see how Maela was doing.  I haven’t seen her since she started the clinical trial.  How are you, Maela?”  She smiles warmly at me.

“Fine, thank you.”  I’m feeling a little disconcerted: she looks exactly as I remembered from the coma; small wonder I dreamed she was a CEO.

“Yes, I was just about to review Maela’s bloodwork, but I think she’s coming along nicely,” Dr. Phos interjects.

“Is that so?” Elizabeth smiles again.  “I’m very glad to hear it.  You had us worried for a while,” she nods to me.

“Well, it’s taken more time than expected to sort out her regime,” Dr Phos says anxiously, “finding the correct balance between the allosteric modulators and H₃ blockers, and then of course the addition of the antimuscarinic and now the NMDA receptor antagonist, but I think we’re almost there.  I’m cautiously optimistic.”

“And the side effects?” Elizabeth cocks her head.

“As predicted, and nothing we can’t manage.”

“Excellent.  Well, Maela, it looks like you’re coming along nicely,” Elizabeth repeats, patting my hand.

“Thank you,” I mumble.  I feel like a turkey, being poked and prodded and basted.  She’s not quite done; the juices are running a little pink; needs another half an hour in the oven at high heat, but her skin’s crisping up nicely.   

“And your sessions with Dr. Beaufort?  Is the hypnotherapy helping?”

I shrug.  Who can say?  I certainly don’t come out of it feeling calm and refreshed, like she promised; I’m unsettled, as if I’ve had a bad dream that I can’t quite recall, a sticky residue that clings, Rorschach blots that tell of horror. 

Elizabeth looks inquiringly at Dr. Phos, who colors.  “A slight issue… as I understand… the method I recommended was a little too effective,” he explains haltingly, “but we’ve adjusted…”  He trails off under her scrutiny, and I swear I can almost see a bead of sweat forming on his temple.  Too effective?  He really shouldn’t lie to his boss like that; as far as I’m concerned, the hypnotherapy hasn’t been effective at all.  But Dr. Beaufort wants to keep trying, and so we go on.  Something else I won’t miss.

Elizabeth frowns.  “I hope so, Dr. Phos, I really hope so.  We have such high hopes for this program.  And we musn’t, we really mustn’t, do anything that would compromise Maela’s recovery.  It’s imperative that her treatment plan proceed as discussed.  We want her out and about, taking visitors around, mingling with guests, being a Mt. Ida ambassador of sorts, don’t we, Maela?”  She squeezes my shoulder with bony fingers.

Why, yes, we do, Elizabeth!  Confinement does not suit us.  We are not amused.  Especially when we talk about ourselves in the third person, as if we were a toddler or the monarch of the realm. Nosism is condescending.   

“Of course, Ms. Cole, of course.  I think, now that we’ve lowered the anti-cholinergic and she hasn’t had an adverse reaction to the antagonist, that we should start to see some positive results soon,” Dr. Phos stammers.  “I’m confident that our patient will respond well to Dr. Beaufort’s course of hypnotherapy.”

We are pleased to hear it, good doctor.  Pray tell, how goeth it with thee?  Pip, pip!

“... Maela?” Elizabeth’s voice cuts in, and I realize that my mind’s wandering again.  I turn to her, “mmm?”

“Any more unusual dreams lately?”

“No,” I frown.  “In fact, I don’t think I’m dreaming at all.  That is, when I do fall asleep.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are.  You’re just not remembering them.  And that’s as it should be.  We don’t want you plagued by the remnants of nightmares, do we?  You should only dream when it’s safe for you to dream.”

“I thought dreams were the mind’s way of processing the events of the day, working through emotions, or preparing for future challenges.”

“Well, that is one theory.  Another is that dreams stem from your subconscious.  And you’ve had rather a lot to process: the trauma of your attack, PTSD, learning to live with your condition, your father’s illness…  No, far better at the moment not to have dreams; I’m sure they wouldn’t be pleasant.  When we are confident that your neurotransmitters are in balance, that your cerebral cortex is functioning normally, then you can dream.  What do the EEGs show?” she asks, turning to Dr. Phos.

“All normal, I’m pleased to report.”  He gives a little bow.

“There!  You see, Maela?  You’ll soon be dreaming of prancing ponies!

I don’t want to dream of prancing ponies; I’m not twelve.  If I dream, I want to dream of the guys.  Although, I wouldn’t say no to a lovely bay mare, with a swishy, black mane and tail and large, dark eyes and a velvety nose.  But whatever. 

“And how are you getting along with Kailani?  Any problems there?”

“Fine.  No.”

“Well, I hope she hasn’t been too much trouble for you.  We’re so grateful to you for watching out for her.  Not to mention taking part in the trial!  Dr. Phos tells me the results are very promising.  We’re seeing evidence of new neural pathways and increased activity in the temporal lobe, which is good news for patients like Kailani.  Of course, there are a lot of steps to take before the medicine can be rolled out, but being able to map your brain, see how it responds and adapts, well, that knowledge is invaluable.  I hope, in the not-too-distant future, we’ll be able to administer the drug to people with cortical abnormalities.  And, who knows?  Perhaps not just to restore but even enhance neuroanatomical functions!  And you will have played a role!”  She beams at me.

“You’re welcome?”  I’m not really following.  But I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, I remind myself.  Journey of a thousand steps and all.

“Well, I really must be off.”  Elizabeth glances at her watch.  “But I’ll be back in a week or so to check up on you.  Lovely seeing you so improved, Maela!”

I nod.  I wonder if I can grab a sneaky nap before art class, while Dr. Phos is busy with my bloodwork?  I can try. 

◆◆◆

Later that day, I’m pretending to journal in the room, when there’s a knock at the door.  I’ve stopped recording my real thoughts and feelings – I just put down any old shite, along with the minutiae of my days – but journaling gives me interrupted time to plan.  I can’t write down escape routes, of course.  No maps, no scenarios to share with Kai.  But I can try to create mental pictures.  I think I’m getting a pretty good feel for the layout of this wing and some of the central rooms; the east wing is a mystery. 

“Come in,” I call out absently.  Knocking is a hollow courtesy; the nurses will come in regardless, but I may as well pretend I have a choice.

“Hi, Maela.  How are you today?”  The cheerful voice makes me perk up a bit, and I turn around with a smile.

“Hi, Iris! How are you?”  A pair of dark-brown eyes twinkles back at me, before the pierced nose between them wrinkles up in disdain.

“Girl, you look like something my cat threw up.”

“Gee, thanks, nurse.  Way to boost a patient’s self-esteem.”

“Not a nurse, so don’t have to be nice to you.”  Then she looks at me sympathetically.  “Still not sleeping?”

I grimace.  “Not really.  I mean, I have to be getting some, but I’m just so bloody tired all the time.”  As if to prove the point, I yawn, so widely my eyes water, and swiftly clap a hand over my mouth.

“Well, if it were up to me, I’d just drug you and have done with it.  Then I wouldn’t have to listen to your whiny ass mouth.  But there are protocols.”  She shakes her head in disapproval.

I roll my eyes.  “How you got a job here is beyond me.” 

“Nepotism,” she shrugs.  Iris, as I’ve learned, is Dr. Beaufort’s niece and her polar opposite, except in looks.  Whereas Iara Beaufort is reserved and stately, Iris is an irreverent hoyden.  She’s only been at Mount Ida for a couple of weeks, filling in for someone on maternity leave before she starts her nursing course, but she’s already become my favorite member of staff.  She’s the only one who doesn’t treat me like an invalid, and I’m actually going to miss her when I leave.  “So, check it out.”  She pulls down the collar of her light-blue scrubs to reveal a small, purple-red blotch.  

“You didn’t?  What?  Zeb?  When?”  Zeb is the bartender at her local and her current boonoonoonoos, as she puts it, or pervee, as I like to tell her.

“Last night.  Three times.  And, yes, his dong is long.”

“Thank you for sharing.  Because sharing is caring.  To share it to support.”

She grins at me.  “His boner made me moan-er.  His stalk made me squawk!”  She starts dancing in place.  “His wood was good!  His Percy gave no mercy!”

I give her the stink eye.  “You can stop now.”

“His schl–”

I stumble out of the chair towards her, clapping my hands over her mouth, although she tops me by at least three inches, and she starts to giggle.

“Are you going to behave?” I ask waspishly.  She nods, fluttering her lashes at me and somehow managing to look penitent.  I look at her suspiciously but step back.

“Right then,” I begin.  “What–”

“His chopper was a whopper!” she sings, dancing away.

“Aaargh!  If I weren’t so tired, I’d come over there and thump you one, you tart.”

“If by ‘tart’, you mean ‘this ass rated therapeutic’, then yes, it is, and yes, I am.”  She puts on an exaggerated Jamaican accent and traces her figure with her hands, shimmying her hips for good measure.

I snort: “How do you figure?”

“Why, girlfriend, one look at my ass, and people instantly feel better!”

I throw my hands in the air.  “I give up.  Now, did you want anything in particular, or did you just come in to brag about your sex life?”

“Tantie needs to speak with you.”

“Oh!  OK.  Any idea why?”

Iris shrugs.  “No, but it sounded urgent.”

“Alright.”  I yawn.  “Maybe the test results are back.  I hope they’re OK,” I say worriedly. 

“You’re getting better, Maela.  Slowly but surely.”  The kindness in her voice almost brings me to tears, and I swipe at my eyes.

“Yeah, thanks.”  I smile brightly.  “So, any more care packages from home?”  Iris only left Kingston at the beginning of April, but her mother has already sent her a box of homemade coconut drops.  I am officially addicted.

“Not yet, but a pack of tamarind balls is apparently on its way.”

“Sounds intriguing.  Any chance you can smuggle me one?”

“I shouldn’t, but what the hell.  Let’s live dangerously.  Just don’t blame me if you have a seizure or your pee turns green.”

“Eww.  Why do people say ‘pee’?  Gross.”

“What?  ‘Pee’?”

“Ugh.”

“What about ‘pee-pee’?  No?  ‘Wee’?”

I mime being sick.

“‘Widdle’?  ‘Piddle’?”

“Enough!  I literally cannot believe I am having this conversation.”

“Well, what am I supposed to say?”  Her tone is reasonable, but her mouth is curving at the corners.

“Nothing!  All bodily functions are off limits.  Remember: ‘Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow.’  We’d never be so vulgar as to do anything else.  Oh, and bring me a tamarind ball.”

Iris shakes her head.  “Weird.  But Muma always taught me I have to humor the sick.”        

I feel a sudden pang at the thought of my own mother.  She still doesn’t want to talk to me.  Daddy’s not improving as quickly as the doctors had hoped, and I’m desperate to speak to them, to apologize, to try to explain, but the phone just rings endlessly.  “Is this the first time you’ve been away from home?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Iris nods.  “Muma wanted me to stay with Tantie Iara for the whole course, and she’s cool and all, but I’m glad the college is too far away from here to commute.  It’s been nice getting to know her, but living with my aunt for the next two years?  Six weeks are enough.  And on that note, she’s probably wondering what’s taking so long.  Not sure I want to tell her we were talking about ‘tinkle’.  Oops, my bad.  ‘Piss’.  No, wait.  ‘U-u-urine’.”

I glare at her and move towards the door.   

“Oh, almost forgot.”  I half turn, ready to give her the finger, and she looks at me earnestly, “his schlong was long.”

I huff.  “You’ve already used ‘long’.  Doesn’t count.”

“His dick was thick?”

I roll my eyes and head down the hall to the sound of her snickers.

Pip Pip Cheerio

Jonah

This is jointly heaven and hell, and sometimes I’m not sure which.  Dark waves churn below me, breaking over and over again against the sharp cliff’s face where I am standing, leaning into the wind that rushes up from the angry ocean.  A wild and chaotic urge is gnarling in my stomach – something in me is pushing me to try to fly, and I have to clench my hands to bone-white knuckles to stop myself from leaping.  I never thought I’d be so miserable surrounded by such luxury.  

“Jonah?”  Glancing over my shoulder, I see the telltale purple flash of Gemma’s hair.  She’s approaching me quietly from behind, a mug of hot chocolate on a gleaming silver tray in her hand.  

It takes me a long moment to relax my muscles enough to reach out and take the drink, but she’s patient, not moving until it’s steady in my shaking hands.  I murmur a quiet, “Thank you,” almost inaudible over the coming storm.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted company,” she offers, shivering and pulling a woven blanket tighter around her shoulders.  “But you’ve been out here awhile.”  It’s not a condemnation, just an observation. 

“It changes from one minute to the next,” I laugh mirthlessly.  “You try sharing a room with Walker for a week and see how it goes.”

Grinning, she pokes me in the side.  “Like you mind.  There are literally a thousand rooms to pick from and you two buffoons chose to room together.  You all keep showing up at my digs anyways, eating my canapes and drinking my champagne.”

She’s teasing and haughty and finally pulls a real smile from me.  “Yeah, I need to talk to whoever booked this vacation, because it’s a raw deal.”

The last week and a half has been one of the weirdest of my life, and that’s saying something.  We left Vashon in the early morning, before the sun had risen, fog thick on water.  Following Lachy through dense woods at the back of his property, we’d skirted the shoreline in complete darkness, relying on his knowledge of the land.  After about half an hour, we’d emerged near a little white cabin, directly on the water.  A decrepit dock jutted out from its side door onto the Sound, a small, well-used fishing vessel tied up to it.  Lachy didn’t hesitate opening up the dockbox and grabbing a set of keys from it.  In their place, he’d left a little carved wooden duck.  He shrugged when we asked him what would happen when the guy found his boat missing.  “Eh.  He’s used to it.  I take it every now and again to get away for a couple of days.  Pay him back by fixing up stuff around his place and free use of my truck while I’m gone.  He rarely goes out on the water anymore anyway.  Bad back.  So it’s a win-win.”

Three stomach-churning hours later, we’d pulled into a small yacht club in Tacoma.  Deo was visibly trembling.  Apparently, he hates boats of any sort.  When he’d realized how we were sneaking away from Seattle, he’d turned a shade of chartreuse I’d never seen on another human being’s face before and raised a shaking finger to point at the small powerboat. 

“What is that?” he whispered, looking sick to his stomach.  

“That’s how we’re getting to Tacoma, D,” Lachy answered and frowned when he saw the whites of Deo’s eyes flash in panic.  “Ah, you okay there?”

“Fine,” Hideo snapped out, breathing like he’d just run a marathon.  “I just… I don’t like boats.  That’s all.”

Walker moved next to him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “Hey.  Hey, man.  It’s okay.  We’ve all got our thing.  It’ll be alright.  This is an ocean-going vessel.  It’s made for this.  The water displacement–”

“WHY is everyone’s first answer fucking WATER DISPLACEMENT?” Deo whisper-shouted in response, making Walker step back in alarm.  “It’s… it’s unnatural!”  Inhaling sharply, he shakily boarded the unsteady boat, alternately moaning and swearing as the rest of us followed.  And it hadn’t gotten any better as an early morning rain blew in off the ocean.  By the time we’d arrived in Tacoma, his face was green and his clothing soaked.  No one dared say a word to him, just shot him worried glances as we followed Lachy to shore.  

“Just head to the parking lot,” he’d said.  “I’m going to sign the boat in.  Under my neighbor’s name,” he offered in response to Walker’s questioning look.  “No paper trail, right?  That’s what they do in the movies.”  

Walker flashed a grin at him.  “You training to be an undercover operative?” he joked.   “Not to burst your bubble, but making a 6’5 linebacker blend in would be a near impossible task.”

“Offensive tackle,” Lachy huffed indignantly.  “And I’m 6’6.”  Walker smirked in response.

“Whatever makes you feel better, Big Bear,” he teased under his breath, and Lachy called over his shoulder, “That is not going to be a thing.”

Walker and I exchanged knowing looks.  Clearly, clearly, it was going to be a thing. 

From there we’d hired three cabs, about forty-five minutes apart from each other, to take us to Tacoma Narrows Airport.  While we were waiting for the first one to arrive, Gemma had put her hair up in a wrap and had taken out all her piercings, toned down her makeup, and changed into a weird cardigan-pantsuit thing.  She was, for lack of a better term, a perfect grade school PTA mom.  None of us had spoken when she emerged from the bathroom, just stared at her with wide eyes, and she’d turned bright pink.  Deo, still a hue only slightly less pale than a ghost, had taken one look at her and started laughing.  Like, really, really laughing, and she’d growled at him.

“I’m sorry!” he’d gasped.  “Holy… holy… oh my God… if only Kai could see this!  I’d give anything for a camera right now.  You look… are you wearing pearls?”

“Easy tiger,” she’d snarked.  “You find a camera, and I’m showing her the photos I took of you when we got on the boat.”

That had shut him up quickly.  

We’d gone to the airport in strange groups.  Lachy took a taxi by himself from the Yacht Club.  Gemma and I hiked up Dock Street to a small café and forced ourselves to grab some breakfast and sit for a while before taking a taxi to a storage-unit building a short walk from the airport.  Deo and Walker went the other way from the top of Dock Street and arrived at the airport about two hours after us.  The second each group arrived, a harried-looking steward had guided us quickly to a private jet sitting on a small runway.  

“This your doing?” I’d asked Lachy as soon as we boarded, but he shook his head and pointed at Gemma.  She shrugged in response.

“We have a couple of high-profile clients at the Gallery who like their tastes in art to remain very private.  One of them hires me as an outside consultant on his collection on a pretty regular basis, and I go on buying trips for him a few times a year.  A piece came up in New York last week that he’s been wanting forever, but I was just going to call on it to make an offer.  Pure dumb luck that he wants it verified in person because of a pricing discrepancy.   He never has me fly commercial for his collection, and this was on my calendar anyway for next week.  He was happy I moved it up.”

“Won’t we be a problem?”

She shook her head.  “No.  As long as I get the piece he wants, he won’t care.  And it’s off the books in relative terms.  He really likes his privacy.”

“What will he do when he doesn’t get his piece?” I’d asked worriedly, and she frowned.

“Oh.  No.  No matter what, I’ll need to make time to go see the painting and make an offer.  There are bridges you don’t burn, and this is one of them.”

“Does he know you don’t work for the Gallery anymore?”

Her lips twitched.  “Yeah, he’s happy.  Wants me to go work for him full time.  No thank you.”

And that’s all she’d been willing to say.  The moment we’d all gotten on, the pilot and co-pilot had greeted us cooly, nodded slightly more warmly to Gemma, and we’d been off.  No stewardesses or extraneous people, and the five-hour flight had largely been silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts.  As soon as we’d landed in Teterboro, New Jersey, a car met us to take us straight to a nearby warehouse.  Gemma had run in, remained there for maybe half an hour, then come back out looking very satisfied.  

“It’s confirmed and ordered,” she’d said to our driver, passing him a packet of papers.  The driver nodded, flipped through the documents, then looked at us pointedly.  “Oh.  Sorry.  Guys.  Out.”

“Am I taking you back today, Ms. Doll?” the driver had asked solicitously, and, when she declined, he left.

Sighing, she’d stared after the car.  “$200 million at the drop of a hat.  Water Serpents II.  Gorgeous.”  She shook her head and looked at Walker.  “What now?”

“Now an Airbnb outside the city.”

I booked the reservation with my Tribal ID, which has my Tlingit name as opposed to my English name, rather than risk using any of the others’ more traceable ones.  Given Babylon’s dismissal of my knowledge of Na-Dené languages, we thought they’d have a similar attitude towards anything First Nations.  Gemma and Deo, once we settled into the nondescript house in Garden City, had a quiet conversation together and disappeared for the night.  They returned in the morning with incredibly well-done fake passports for everyone, looking exhausted but satisfied.  Apparently, they had a contact in the city that they’d used previously during their CDS days together and assured us that the IDs would hold up under medium scrutiny.  Anything other than a relatively cursory glance or run at the airport wouldn’t work, but they were fairly confident that, as long as we booked direct flights and only went through customs once, we’d be okay.  

We spent the next couple days lying low and planning.  It had taken a ridiculous amount of effort to figure out Emlyn’s fucking emoji clues.  Gemma actually was the one who broke it – she remembered something Kai had mentioned about feeling like she was in Pride and Prejudice with the peerage and how Maela was lucky as fuck because Darcy had 10,000 a year.  It didn’t make sense to anyone else, but Gemma had practically swooned – obviously it was a them thing.  So, while the rest of us were looking for any meaning of a crown, an eagle, and snowflake which made sense, Gemms had gone to the local library and researched Emlyn’s family.  After a lot of digging, she found a footnote in an old book about scandals in British history that referenced Emlyn’s great-somebody once removed, who apparently had an eye for the Welsh help, and had almost lost his title because of it.  She’d followed that lead to mention of a “country home” which had been built for the affair partner and her illegitimate offspring.  

We had no location for the home and no access to a landhold registry.  But we figured if it was built for a Welsh woman, maybe start there.  Snowflake didn’t turn up any results that were useful, but eagle in Welsh is eryri, which led us to a National Park called Eryri in Wales and an area of the country called Snowdonia.  So… snowflake and eagle.  Which had Walker rubbing his eyes and cursing Emlyn’s cryptic clues.  John Masefield was easier.  “Sea Fever” was his most famous poem, all about needing to go to the ocean, so we figured we were looking along the coastline – 23 miles of it, to be exact.

Of all the estates along those 23 miles, four were possibilities, and we were able to rule out three almost immediately.  There was little to no information on the fourth, just that it was a private family home that was little used, though it was not open to the public.  As it was our best option, we decided to aim for that and see what happened.  Not the best of plans by a longshot, but we were running short on time and knew the window of opportunity for us to leave the country unseen had narrowed down to a sliver.  Any longer, and it would be too late.  

Gemma and Lachy had flown out first, from Newark.  Deo, Walker, and I had separated and left from JFK – different airlines, different times, all non-stop.  All of us had to track through Heathrow but had taken the train to a meeting point outside the city before we met up again.  We did a long-term car rental from some random city outside of London under Walker’s fake name, loaded up on an insane amount of supplies and food, and hauled ass for Snowdonia.

Even taking every possible precaution not to be traced or followed, I know all of us feel like sitting ducks, fish in a barrel, just waiting.  Waiting for news from the British team.  Waiting for something to do with our empty hands and hearts.  Waiting for some way forward.  Waiting in this big fucking mansion, because “country home” is a complete misnomer.  It’s a giant, imposing building complete with gardens and fountains and everything.  Sure, some of the grounds are a little overgrown, and when we’d… let ourselves in through a now broken-lock door, all the furniture had been covered in white sheets… but the place was a freaking palace.  And it feels weird, and wrong, to be sitting in luxury surrounded by eighteenth-century artwork while somewhere out there, Kai is thinking we’re not coming.  Thinking we’ve abandoned her.

Gemma’s cold hand on my arm brings me back to the present.  “Maybe it’s time to come inside, Jonah.”  Her voice is so small, and I wonder how she manages to boss Kai around.

“I don’t feel ready yet…” I reply quietly, looking back to the cliffs and the waves and the tempting winds that feel strong enough to lift me.

“I many times thought peace had come, when peace was far away…” she whispers, following my gaze out to the now roaring ocean, where a line of grey rain is falling, fast approaching.

“What?” I ask curiously, the choked emotion in her voice commanding my face back to her pale, heartbreakingly sad one.

“Oh.  It’s a poem Kai used to say under her breath when she thought no one could hear her.  When something bad happened.  ‘I many times thought peace had come, when peace was far away…’  Just – it was like, when is the other shoe going to drop, you know?  Things were going so well for such a little while.  I mean, as well as they ever go for Kai and me.  Things seemed… better.”  Her face scrunches up as she blinks furiously against the press of tears, and she shakes her head.  “No.  Tears won’t do any good right now.  Neither will learning to fly,” she adds firmly, and I let out a shuddering breath.  

Reaching out, Gemma removes the mug from my clenched hand and gently straightens my fingers.  “I know a fight when I see it.  Okay?  So we walk away from the triggers.  You understand me?”  I sigh and shrug.  There’s no real answer I can give her, but she doesn’t let go of my hand.  “I found a game closet,” she says, pulling at my arm, leading me away from the cliff edge and ocean brine.  “It has a surprising amount of stuff in there.  The original Risk?  Something called Pay Day?  This Game Is Bonkers?  Clue?”

“I can tell you the answer to that one.  Ms. Cole, in the ballroom, but fuck knows how.”

She tilts her head and looks at me for a long time.  “Well.  If you know the who and the where, then I guess all that’s left is the how, right?  So we either work on that, or we give up.  Which do you want to do.”  It’s not a question.  She knows the answer.  

“Okay.  Okay.  Thanks, Gemm.”

“I was always really good at Clue,” she replies, a little smile beginning to curve up on her face.  “Everyone has a tell.  And everyone makes mistakes.  Let’s go play a game, Jonah.”

Spying on a Diplomat

Maela

I amble along, trying not to make any noise while at the same time looking completely innocent.  You’d think rubber soles would be just the ticket, but they squeak against the hardwood floors sometimes.  I’ve left the library early; I don’t think anyone will notice; it’s been quiet for the last half hour.  I’m aiming for the east wing again.  I need to know where the nurses take their breaks, just in case.  Does the room face towards the garden?  I still haven’t figured out exactly how Kai and I are going to leave, but if we can slip out through the west entrance, and then maybe dart behind the elm and then to the flower beds?  I’m hoping the staff don’t actually live on site.  Who in their right mind would want to?  OK, some of the nurses and orderlies obviously stay overnight, but do they actually have bedrooms here?  And if anyone does, maybe the rooms don’t face the garden, or… or… the curtains will be drawn?  That would make sense, right?  Get off shift, go to your room, turn on the T.V., kick back, and relax?  Why would you look out the window at the crazies?

My shoes make little suctioning noises as I creep along and sidle around the bend, heart in mouth.  If one of the nurses catches me, I am fu-doodled.  

The corridor is empty, and I slowly exhale.  So far, so good.  I walk along the corridor, passing one closed door after another.  Maddeningly, none of them have a convenient glass pane through which I can peer; on the other hand, no one in the rooms can see out.  I glance over at one of the windows giving onto the garden.  It really is quite beautiful, stately and serene.  You’d never guess at the horror show within.  I’m close to the end of the corridor now and close to passing out.  Remember to breathe, Maela!  Slow and steady.  That’s it.  The place is dead quiet, save for the drone of a bumble bee that’s made its way inside.  You’d think the wing was deserted, and there’s nothing to indicate where the break room might be.  But the good news is that none of the rooms look directly over the garden; they’re all set back from the corridor.  Should have thought about that, Maela.  None of the rooms on the other side do either; everything’s a mirror image.  The old you would have made the connection.

A noise up ahead, from around the corner, makes me jump.  I don’t have time to swear.  I look around, see a narrow door, try the handle, and slip inside.  I’m expecting an outraged voice, but miracle of miracles, the door doesn’t lead to a bedroom but a… staircase?  Huh.  Huh!  Could it lead?... Maybe?...  Down, down, down I goes, where I’ll land, nobody knows.  Cautiously, I tiptoe to the bottom of the ill-lit steps.  Another servants’ passage: it must be.  Wouldn’t want your guests to have to mingle with the scullions who empty your chamber pot.  Thank heavens for snobbery!          

The door to the right is locked, as is – surprise, surprise – the one to the left.  I don’t know why I expected any differently, but I’m suddenly so frustrated I give the handle a good yank… and it opens.  I stop on the threshold, scarcely breathing at the smooth expanse of green lawn stretching before me.  There’s no one in sight.  I could leave, I think suddenly.  I could go right now, run to the copse and down to the river.  I’ve heard it, during my walks in the garden, singing to me of freedom, of lazy days basking in the sun, curled up like a cat in the grass.  I could leave.

No, Maela!  What about Kailani?

What about Kailani?  What makes you think you can take care of her?  You can barely look after yourself.  She’s better off here, with the doctors and nurses.  They can help her much better than you ever could.  The words ring hollow in my head, and I know them for a lie.  Shaking my head, I close the door and retrace my steps.  I’ve found a way out.  Unlocked.  The west door Iris uses on her breaks never opens.  I know; I’ve tried.  Now, all I have to do is figure out a way to get from point A to point B and when.  How?  How can Kailani and I get over to the east wing without being seen?  I plod along.  And when we get to the river, what then?  Can we follow it?  I’m not a strong swimmer.  But surely putting a river between us and Mt. Ida would throw off pursuit?    

“Maela!”  The surprised voice snaps me out of my mental convolutions.

“Matron!”  Oh fuck.  What is she doing here?  Think, Maela.  Think!  “I was just on my way to the kitchen.  I’ve got a headache and was going to ask Mrs. Riggins for a cup of chamomile tea.  I would have asked one of the orderlies, but I’ve just got off my library shift and thought I might as well go myself.”  I sound like a fruit bat, the words coming out in one long, breathless squeak, and force myself to inhale.  Thank the ever-loving fuckity fuck that I’m in the central hall; she’s got no reason to think I’ve been snooping.  At least, I hope not.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.  I was actually just coming to see you, so this is fortuitous.”  

“Yes?”  It’s no good: I’m going to have a heart attack.  I’m getting palpitations.  Palpitations, shortness of breath, and a pain in my arms from where my shoulders shot up to my ears.  My heartbeats actually hurt, each one a stiletto in the chest.  I swear it’s going to explode, like a reverse blood eagle.    

“I’ve just been speaking with Dr. Beaufort and Dr. Phos, and they’re very pleased with your progress.”

“Mmm?”

I’m attempting to coax my eyeballs back into their sockets as she continues.  “In fact, you’re doing so well that we’ve decided we’d like you to come speak with a guest this afternoon.  He’s actually a funder.  And now a member of the French parliament.  Made a fortune as an equity broker before deciding to give back to the people through public service,” she adds dryly.  

“OK?”

“Excellent!  I’d like him to see all the good he’s doing by supporting Mt. Ida.  I’ve told him about you, how you were attacked and left in a coma but are now on your way to an almost complete recovery, and he’d like to meet you.  The advances we’re making in specialist care, treating severely injured patients, understanding how the brain works, how the neurons communicate, sending and interpreting all those chemical and electrical signals!  Well, it’s really quite remarkable.  And I know that this experience has been traumatic for you, but I hope you can take some comfort that you are turning it to a good purpose. Someday, we may be able to cure the most common diseases of the brain, maybe even improve neural function, and you will have played your part.”  We stop in front of the kitchen door.  “Well, here we are.  Enjoy your tea.  I’ll see you later.”  She smiles as I grasp the handle.

Step right up, step right up, folks, and see the miracle of medicine!  Why, just a few months ago, this girl was comatose.  And now she can tie her shoelaces.  Shoelaces!

◆◆◆

“Now, remember, Maela: there’s no need to fret.  We’re going to do some relaxation exercises and then we’ll use the visualization technique to help you focus, counting down the stairs and walking to the feather bed, where you can rest and share whatever worries may be troubling you.  Alright?”

I nod, taking a seat.  Dr. Beaufort doesn’t like me lying down; apparently, I get a little too relaxed.  My eyelids begin to dip as we go through the exercises, and I have to stifle a yawn.  Last night was particularly bad.  I didn’t realize the meeting would upset me so much, but meeting the envoy, speaking in French, reminded me so much of Maman and how much I missed her.  And then there was the other guest.

I’d trotted after the orderly down the hall, stopping in front of a wood-paneled door.  She’d given it a respectful tap and then gestured me inside.  I’d entered what must have been the original drawing room, with a lovely marble fireplace, a grouping of maroon, leather armchairs and a low, rosewood table before it, and wide bay windows looking out across an ornamental garden.  Along the far wall was a pair of matching commodes, with gilt-brass handles and a marquetry veneer, on either side of a row of Queen Anne chairs, and oil portraits of the former owners of the house looking down, stiff-necked and unsmiling, from above.

“Ah, Maela ma chère,” Elizabeth called out, “entrez!  Come and meet our guests.”  She was dressed in civilian clothes again, wide-legged, dark-purple slacks and a heavy, cream blouse, and talking with two Saville-Row-suited men, who turned as I advanced into the room.  One was an older man, short, grey-haired, and slight, and the other – Senator Tennireef?  I stopped for a moment, gaping.  

“Allow me to introduce you to Monsieur Jean-Jacques d’Aumale, one of our most generous benefactors and a member of the Foreign Affairs Committee, and Senator James Tennireef, a compatriot of yours, from the state of Washington.”  Her accent was flawless; Maman would have been impressed.

“Enchanté, Madame,” Mr. d’Aumale gave a little bow, and I managed to bob in return.  Senator Tennireef just dipped his head, smiling.  He was a handsome man, just as I remembered?  And smug.  That too.

“Madame Cole has just been telling us about your remarkable recovery, Mademoiselle.  What courage!  I commend you.”

“Merci,” I answered faintly, not quite sure what else to say.  

“Maela is a true Gaia success story!  We’re so proud of her.”  Elizabeth looked warmly at me.  “It just goes to show what a difference a little private support can make.”  

Mr. d’Aumale bowed again.  “But of course!  And I understand you volunteer with the other patients, Mademoiselle?  That is good, very good.”

I nodded, explaining that I helped in the library, in the art classes, in the kitchens, while Mr. d’Aumale made encouraging noises and Senator Tennireef looked bored.  Perhaps he didn’t speak French?  I got so flustered I stammered to a halt after agreeing that yes, the gardens were very nice and yes, Mt. Ida was perfectly lovely. 

“So I hope, dear Jean-Jacques, that I can continue to count on your backing for the projected Gaia center in Normandy,” Elizabeth interjected smoothly.

“Ah, Madame!  You are an operator!  How could I say ‘no’ in front of such a charming young lady?”

“Touchée!”  Elizabeth put her hand to her heart, smiling and inclining her head.  “But can you blame me?” 

“I hate to be the one to break up the conversation,” Senator Tennireef said then, in tolerably passable French, “but it’s two and a half hours back to London, and we really should make a move.  Jean-Jacques and I have a long day of meetings tomorrow.”      

Elizabeth looked sharply at him, narrowing her eyes, and Senator Tenireef shrugged.  “We can’t have France doing a bilateral deal with the UK, now, can we?”

Mr. d’Aumale wagged his finger playfully at the senator.  “Some would say that the affair does not concern you.”

“The US and UK have a special relationship.  Didn’t you know?”

“You Anglo-Saxons!”

“I live to serve my country!  And when you said you were going to Mt. Ida–”

“You thought you’d tag along,” Elizabeth interrupted archly.  “What a good thing I was here to receive you!”        

“Wasn’t it just!  I’m a big supporter of your work, Ms. Cole.  As you know, the Gaia Foundation has a special place in my heart.  I thought I could help you persuade our friend if he was having any doubts about the new center.” 

“Oh, I’m well aware, Senator.”

There was a slight pause, while I shifted my weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, trying not to yawn.  Wouldn’t do for the prize poodle to get bored. 

“OK, Maela.  Why don’t you lie down on the bed?”

I frown, looking around.  What is Dr. Beaufort doing here?  The drawing room’s faded, to be replaced by a soft, dark mist.  Bed, yes, that sounds like a good idea.

“Comfy?”

No.  Where’s the bed?

“Now, you met with some interesting people yesterday, didn’t you, Maela?  Mr. d’Aumale.  He was nice, wasn’t he?  I wonder what he’s doing now.  Why don’t you tell me, Maela?”

I look around.  He’s not here, but there’s a faint light in the distance.  I walk towards it, step after step, and the light grows brighter.  I crane my neck, and there he is, sitting in an office.

“Il est dans une réunion.”

“In English, please, Maela.”

“He’s in a meeting.”

“Oh, yes?  What about?”

I listen for a few minutes.  “They’re not happy with the proposal.  They think the British are being unreasonable.  But they’re inclined to make a counterproposal, if only to keep the British from pursuing a deal with the Americans.  Mr. d’Aumale thinks the Americans are interfering in the Eurosphere.”

“How very interesting.  Go on.”

“Umm, they’re arguing now.”  I settle down to watch as one person after another speaks, interrupting, gesticulating, shuffling through papers.

“Maela?”

“Someone’s suggested a coffee break.  They want to reconvene in an hour.”

“Hmm.  Why don’t we go somewhere else?  I know, what about Babylon?  Why don’t we pay Seef and Emlyn a visit?”

My heart squeezes, and a silver rope falls from the ceiling.

No.  No!  I quickly turn and walk away, back into the shadows, deep into the nothingness.  Secret, secret, secret.

“Maela?  Maela?”

The voice pursues me to the door.  I push through it and run up the steps.  When I open my eyes, my head is pounding.

Gollum

Kailani

It feels like ages since I’ve had a purple day, and the glitter of it is wearing off, leaving behind a dirty, sludge-like scum on my memory of it.  There have been no happy days since.  Then again, there have been no sad days, no angry days, no frustrated days, no frantic days.  There have only been days of emptiness, stretching on and on past the horizon into a grey nothingness.  Nothing has broken up what feels like months of colorless life, if you could even call it that.  Every morning is the same.  I wake, I make my bed, and Maela would be proud of me if Maela had the energy to care.  But Maela is a stumbling ghost, grey in a grey world, even the fire of her volcanic hair dulled down to a muted near brown.  She makes her own bed, remakes it, remakes it, remakes it, until I gently touch her shoulder, and she startles away.  Then she counts her steps to the bathroom, pauses, fights with herself Okay, Maela, it was only one step off, only one step, but she breaks and rushes back to the bed, starting over, step, step, step, and this time it’s correct.  Fifteen steps.  Touch the light; touch the light; get dressed; wash hands, one, two, five times until she’s crying but it has to be right.  Then she looks at the door to the room and puts on her armor so clearly I can see it, breathing deeply, and she commands, panic in her voice, “You need to remake your bed, Kailani.  The corners.  Please!”.  

And it’s, “Yes, Maela.  Of course.  I’ll fix them,” just like every day, and a little of the weight falls from her shoulders. 

“The laundry is–” she begins, and I interrupt.  

“It’s my week, Maela.  I’ll handle it while you’re gone.”  The reward is the relief on her face.  It’s been my week for laundry six weeks in a row now, but her skin was cracked and bleeding from the bleach last time she took our towels.  

“You’ll use the bleach?”  

“Of course, Maela.”  

She starts her walk to the main door, testing the waters, and I know seven steps in it will be a good day for her, because her seventh step hits the odd crack on the floor just when it’s supposed to, so Maela smiles a little and a tiny kick of confidence lightens her movement.   Everything is going as it should, everything is the same, and if it’s not good, at least there is cold comfort in knowing the path of the day.  I scratch my arms with stubbed nails, then scratch harder, and harder.  Something is itching, just under my skin, something is crawling on tiny little feet through my veins.  And I need to let it out – I can feel its teeth and wriggling body, and I… want… it… out!

Maela pauses at the door – she never pauses once her steps are right, and she turns to face me.

“Kai?’  Her voice is hesitant, and I worry right away.  

“What?  What’s wrong?” I ask anxiously, fingernails still digging into my skin, unable to look away from the blue veins in my arms, and she frowns.

“Please.  The corners.”  Which is strange because I’m already doing them again, but when I finally look up to question her, she shakes her head just the smallest amount and mouths “no purple.”

No… purple?  No purple?  That can’t be right.  Maela loves me happy.  Maela loves me Purple.  I didn’t see it correctly.  No purple?  I haven’t even had the OPTION for purple, but I’d never turn it down.  The thought makes me thirsty and writhes like snakes in my stomach.  Grey, Kai, grey, the little voice in my mind chants, but I feel sick and desperate.  That desperation?  That’s Purple, Kai, Purple.  My brain mocks me, and I clench my hands into fists.  Just fix the corners already.  You’ll be late for Group.  The voice sighs.  It’s disappointed in me.  Just like everyone else in my life.

But the nurse hasn’t come yet, so I can’t leave, and I’m shaking now, wrapping my arms around me to keep my bones from vibrating out of my skin.  Maela is still at the door, hovering uncertainly, and I want to tell her to get out, that she can’t help me.  Nothing can help me right now but the one thing I know I won’t get.  My blankets were rough, and my pillow was thin, and so I know there’s no coffee today, no laughter, no “good job, Kailani”.  I’m grinding my teeth together to keep from screaming when the nurse walks in, brushing past Maela in a fluster.

“Goodness!  I’m late today.  I’m sorry, Kailani.  We’ve had quite a ruckus upstairs.  Now, let’s see what we have on this morning, hmmm?”

Maela has retreated back into the room, just a few steps, her face set in a strange expression.  Why is she coming back?  Seven steps and she hit the crack on the floor!  Today is a good day for Maela!

I don’t have time to think about it though, because… oh seven holy hells.  My heart skips a beat, and I hear an unintended, low moan escape my mouth.  On her tray of tiny pills and colorless vials, I can see one, shiny, swirling, little glass syringe filled with a color so bright and so deep it makes my blood ache.  Purple, my voice whispers sadly, but I ignore it, because that bitch is always against me.  My tongue flicks over my dry lips in eager anticipation, but I still my shaking hands.  

“Be good, be good, just do as you should, and you’ll get the dreaming color.”  I say it under my breath, over and over, not realizing I’m speaking out loud, and the nurse nods in agreement.

“That’s right, dear.  I heard you made some good progress, so we’re changing things up a little today.”  She ties off my upper arm and swabs the skin of my inner elbow, a gentle smile on her face as tears run down my own.  I don’t know what’s happening to me – I’m close to sobbing with sudden happiness and gratefulness.  If I can just have the purple, this will all make sense, I’m sure, so I sit, frozen, as the nurse picks up the syringe and taps it.  

Maela is closer now, creeping toward us with uneasy determination written on every line of her face.  She’s making me nervous, and I want the nurse to hurry, hurry before Maela comes and steals my happiness from me.  

But the nurse doesn’t move quickly enough.

I look away from Maela for a second to watch the shiny needle go in my arm.  It never makes it.  There is an explosion of sound and color and movement, and somehow the nurse and the tray and the syringe are on the ground, tangled up in Maela, whose eyes are rolled back in her head as though she’s having a seizure.  She’s flailing around, knocking into the nurse who is desperately trying to get to her feet, scattering pills, and, oh gods, smashing her hand into the glass, mixing red blood with purple liquid.

I don’t know what to do.  I want to help Maela, but an anger, so vicious and violent I feel sick, surges through me, and it takes everything inside me not to stomp her fucking face in.  I fight against myself, my hands reaching out in curled claws toward my friend, my mind screaming at me to Stop!  Stop!  That’s Maela!  It was an accident!  Is she hurt?  Stop, Kailani!  KAILANI!

Somehow I’m on my feet, moving toward her, teeth bared, and I force myself to step back, rocking on my heels.  My brain is still shrieking, my body fighting me, my blood surging, and something inside, a tiny, sibilant Gollum different than the little voice in my head, is whispering, There’s some left on the ground.  Just go lick it up.  The glass won’t matter once it’s in you.  Look at it.  Just a little bit will help.  Just a little.

But Maela is there too.  

Maela is on the ground too.  

And the red blood from her cut hand is there too.  

The nurse is panicking, looking at the mess in front of her, eyes bouncing between Maela twitching on the ground, me advancing forward with death on my face, and her careful tray of medicine scattered around the room.  She reaches to grab her radio, and I see Maela’s rolling eyes flash open to focus on me for just a heartbeat, the relief in them so clear it washes everything else away.  

Dropping to my knees, I crawl toward her, fighting the urge to lower my face to the floor and lick, lick, lick that beautiful, shimmering pool.  Shaking like a leaf, knees crunching on tiny shards of glass, I drag myself forward.

“Nurse,” I croak, voice painfully dry.  “She’s…”  I have to clear my throat to keep speaking.  “She’s having a seizure.  You should call for help.”  I push Maela’s damp hair off her forehead, inanely picking a small, paper wrapper out of her curls.  “Maela,” I whisper.  “Why, Maela, why?”  But I don’t expect an answer.  If she spoke – I shudder to think what would happen.  I just want her to know that I’m here.  That I’m with her.  The puddle of purple liquid is inches from her head; I have to force my eyes away from it.  Just focus on Maela, Kailani.  

The nurse springs into action, as though she had been waiting for some direction to help her indecision.  “Yes, we need help in Driscoll’s room.  She’s having an adverse reaction to something!  I didn’t dose her this morning – she’s collapsed.  It’s not my fault!  Yes, please, as soon as possible.  Maela, Maela, can you hear me?”  Maela is still and limp, which sends the nurse into a frenzy.  The voice on the radio is asking questions, and the nurse is answering rapid-fire, changing from speaking into the radio to speaking directly to the doctors that rush into the room with stretcher ready.  They lift her so carefully and gently that at least I know she’s going to be alright, that they don’t blame her.  They’re taking her blood pressure, shining lights in her eyes, their voices are soft and kind and anxious.

But I don’t see them wheel her away, don’t call out a good-bye. 

Because my fingers, as I pulled back from her, when the nurses and doctors hovered around her like bees… my fingers dragged through the purple liquid on the floor.  And now they are stained with it, glistening dully in the suddenly empty room, the sounds and chaos leaving all at once, the whoosh of noise disappearing like entering a vacuum of silence.  Now it is just me, and just my cut-up knees, just my bare head, just my aching body.  And the tiniest, minuscule promise of happiness, like blackberry juice on my skin.  Taste it, the Gollum somewhere deep in my chest urges.  Just taste it.  Just a little.  A tiny lick.  You’ll be happy, if just for a second.  Taste it.  TASTE IT.  TASTE IT!

I don’t know how long I stay there, staring at my fingers.  I can only say that, when I finally stand, shaking, my joints pop, and my feet are numb.  That when I force myself to walk to our small bathroom, my legs ache, and my skin is cold.  That when I turn on the shower to scalding, it hits my hands and sends fiery brands of pain through my veins.  And if I cry and cry and cry, seeing the purple go down the drain, well, there is no one here to hear me.  I don’t leave the shower until my skin feels like it’s going to peel off my bones, until my face is tight and my eyes are empty.  And by the time I walk out of the bathroom, the floor is clean, except for a faint purple mark left like a wine stain.  

It is surprisingly hard to look away from it.

Avengers Assemble

Hideo

“... and despite growing reports that she’s dissatisfied, the Sussexes were all smiles on their short walk.  Meghan is heavily pregnant, of course, due any day.  Hands always on her stomach.  Favorite food, avocado, they say!  Very… Californian.  Constance?  Back to you in the studio.”

“Thank you, Adam!  Speaking of Americans, we’ve had quite the influx lately…”

It’s hard to focus on anything at the moment.  The news has been on constantly the past few days, churning through the same stories over and over, feeding the voracious appetite of a non-stop, 24-hour cycle.  I can almost repeat word-for-word by this point what’s going to be said, but we can’t turn it off in case we miss something.  And we’ll go crazy as a group if we don’t do something, anything really, while stuck in this hollowed-out country estate, waiting.  I’ve made lists and remade lists, over and over and over, looking for a crack in the wall, a tiny slip, any paper-thin fracture that will give us an idea of where the girls are, of some way forward.  But nothing.  And we’re trapped here, trying desperately to stay off-the-grid until we hear from Emlyn and his team.  

Lachy lasted about five hours before unearthing an antique toolbox and getting to work on anything he could fix.  He’s already been through the kitchen, most of the bathrooms, the very dubious-looking water heater, and a couple of radiators that sound like they’re about to break free from their pipes every time the heat kicks on.  Walker has been pacing like a tiger in a cage, Jonah has been running laps out to the ocean and back until his legs shake, and Gemma has been exploring the house, spending hours in the ancient library with a little radio tuned into the local news.  I’ve been learning more than I ever needed to know about the interplay between Kate and William, Harry and Meghan, and the Royal Family, whilst listening to and watching the BBC.  

“... so we anticipate larger than usual numbers coming in from the States for  the MIND music fest this year!  All proceeds go to mental-health research, and it’s shaping up to be quite the event!”

“Lovely.  Headliners include Ed Sheeran, am I right?”

Ed Sheeran, Adele, Billie Eilish… you know all these, Adam.  You have repeated their names every five seconds for the last 72 hours.  Stop sounding so fucking surprised.

“You are, Adam.  Maybe enough of a draw to convince American Senator James Tennireef and Governor Marcus Anderson to stay beyond their brief, diplomatic stopover to discuss America’s participation in the Invictus Games.  The games, coming up in September…”

“Team!”  The word bursts from me in a half-cough, half-shout, and I can tell no one hears me, even as I run over to the surprisingly modern TV to turn it up to max volume.  “Um, shit. Shit.  AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE!”

There’s a scurry of movement from the rooms around me, chairs being knocked over or things being bumped into, and moments later, Walker and Gemma burst through the door, frantically glancing around the room, eyes wide and confused.  

“What the actual fuck, Tanaka?”  Walker looks completely befuddled, and I shrug helplessly in response.  

“I don’t know, it just happened.  Fucking Jonah and his Marvel… Just… listen–” but I’m cut off by Lachy’s heavy footsteps, Jonah right behind him.  

“You called?” he asks, raising a sardonic eyebrow, and I’m about to respond when his head snaps around to face the TV at the sound of a familiar name.  

“Oh, I know!”  The weather woman and the desk reporter are chatting back and forth now, both smiling happily at each other.  “Senator Tennireef made quite the stir at The Silver Crowne last night, accompanied by several prominent MPs, not the least of which was our own eligible bachelor, the Honorable Alexander Payne, who the Daily Mail reported was seen out with ingénue Chelsea Pickford shortly after the public dinner.”

“Senator Tennireef may not have a choice regarding how long he stays in London…” Adam interjects meaningfully, and both female reporters look at him with sympathetic glances.  “Reports are, this morning, that all members of the dinner party, as well as several other tables, were struck with severe food poisoning late last night!  Not what you’d expect from the West End’s newest two-star Michelin restaurant.   Multiple people were taken to hospital, and we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the Americans since!  Tennireef was due to speak at a children’s hospital this morning but canceled that and all other scheduled meetings today and tomorrow.  A doctor from St. Thomas’ Hospital has made a house call at Tennireef’s lodgings and has reported that the senator is dehydrated and receiving fluids and has recommended him to bed rest for at least the next 48 hours.”

“Not the way anyone would want their trip to begin, I’m sure.  Governor Anderson wasn’t at the dinner, fortunately, and was able to cover his colleague’s planned engagements.  The children seemed to respond well to the American governor’s presence, though that may have been due to the large toy donation he made–”

“Constance, I’m sorry to break in here, but reports are coming in that Meghan and Harry are doing a photo shoot now, and I’d like to go to our man on the ground there!”

The room turns into a vacuum of silence as Jonah reaches out and turns down the TV.

“He’s in England?  In London?”  Walker’s voice is sharp, focused, the hunt for blood clear in his tone.  

“Why, though?” Jonah asks, and we all exchange looks.

“Not for the Invictus Games, obviously,” Gemms murmurs.  “A good excuse, but… what’s coming up?  What else is happening anytime soon?  Is Cole here?  Any Gaia events?  It’s too coincidental.”

Flipping through my notebook, I check my most recent lists.  “No recent contact with Cole; she’s been very visible in Washington DC all week, almost every moment scheduled and accounted for.  Heavy fundraising at the moment and lots of face time with military committees due to Gaia’s recent goodwill gesture with the PTSD meds.  I may have missed something though?” I say slowly, desperately fighting growing excitement.  This could be it.  It could be… I don’t know.  But something.

As I search through my notes, Jonah grabs the controller and starts running through channels, stopping when he hits one that has a small graphic of Tennireef in the upper corner, and turns up the sound.  “Two have been hospitalized due to dehydration, but Senator Tennireef remains at his townhouse where he is recuperating for the next few days until a state dinner, which he hopes to attend.  He did issue a brief statement this morning…” and here, the image changes to a very pale Tennireef who is lying in bed.  

“I’m fine, thank you.”  His voice is weak, skin pale and clammy, but I’m strongly reminded of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and narrow my eyes at the screen.  “No one’s fault.  Just bad luck.  I’m so sorry to be missing my obligations, and I can’t wait to be up and around again to meet all the charming people here in London.”  He swallows hard, and the camera cuts away, back to the studio.  

“Governor Anderson,” the image shifts to a blond-haired, twinkly blue-eyed, all-American man, clearly corn-fed and pasture-raised, “has added Senator Tennireef’s visits to his calendar and has offered to go in his stead to any functions until the senator is back on his feet.  In other news…”

Walker paces, eyes sharp.  “Can we confirm with anyone that Tennireef is actually confined to bed?”  Something about Tennireef’s pale pose obviously struck him as off as well. 

“He’s… I don’t know.  I don’t like it.”

“Why would he be faking it, Walker?” I reply thoughtfully.  His face darkens in response, jaw tightening, and I hurry to elaborate.  “No.  I mean it.  Let’s figure out why he’d put this much effort into faking getting sick?  Or actually getting sick, at least enough to prove out his story.”

“You said once, back when all this went sideways, that it seemed like he was covering his tracks, but you didn’t know from who…”  Walker is pacing again, heavy lines on his brow.  “So if he’s set this up, what’s he planning?  And who is he trying to hide it from?  We need to contact the Brits, Deo.”

“I don’t know if it’s worth the risk, Walker,” I say slowly, reluctance clear in my words.  “We have no idea how heavily the British team is being monitored.  There are very few people that I’d trust at the moment with our location, and the senator has a very long list of loyal employees and political cronies...”  

“There has to be some way to contact them.”  Jonah is still staring at the television, flipping stations.

Tapping my fingers, I flick my eyes back and forth, back and forth, between the screen and my notebook.  “I can’t think of any that wouldn’t risk us.  Other than traditional mail, but I don’t have Emlyn’s current address on me.  And it’s enough of an issue every time Lachlainn goes to get groceries.  We’re going to run out of places to shop soon.”  He’d already made two trips to two separate locations, different towns in opposite directions pretending to be a vacationing American.  But giant bears of men don’t blend in well over here unless they’re at a rugby game.

Walker suddenly leans forward, staring at the footage playing on the TV.  “Can you pause it?” he asks intently, and Jonah barks out a laugh.

“Dude.  I don’t even know if it’s on satellite or rabbit ears.  I don’t think anyone spends a lot of time here.  Why?”

“I swear I just saw that Fallon chick.  But she was in the background.  God damn it.  I don’t know.  I may just be seeing what I want to see.  I can’t imagine she’s here if we have hard evidence of Elizabeth being in DC.  She follows Cole around like a puppy.”  He sighs deeply. “This would be a hell of a lot easier if we could get on the internet.”

Low murmurs of agreement echo around the room.  Not that we’re taking things for granted – the fact that the house had working electricity, water, and television were unexpected blessings.  Of course, on the downside, it means that someone comes here regularly enough to warrant those things.  And none of us are confident in what would happen if a random housekeeper showed up; I don’t know what Emlyn has or hasn’t done or organized, just that we followed directions and have been hiding in his country home since, with no word.

“Well…” I begin slowly, thinking through possibilities.  “What if we get on the internet?  Gemma?  Could you PTA yourself up again?  Hide the hair?  Look less overtly American?”  She nods, waiting for me to continue.  “Then maybe you take the car and find a library… there has to be one somewhere around.  Drive for an hour in any direction, find a town, and ask around?  We’ll make up a list of questions for you to research, maybe get some idea as to what’s going on around here.”

She grins, a spark of life entering her expression.  “Yeah, D!”

Jonah holds up a cautionary hand.  “Is it safe?  Shouldn’t someone go with her?”

Shaking my head, I exhale slowly.  “I think… no.  Just Gemm.  She can handle herself, Jonah.”

“Kai would kill us if something happened to her on our watch,” he mutters, earning him a soft smile from Gemma.

“It’s okay, Jonah.  I know you’re all used to seeing this version of me, and I get it.  It’s the more real version of myself, this kind of scattered, purple-headed thing that is mostly in the clouds.  That’s who I like to be… it’s more authentic to who I am.  But I promise you, I didn’t last as this one’s partner–” she points at me with a teasing smile, “and working under Gomez by being soft.  I’m a bit more capable than you guys give me credit for.”  She’s firm, but gentle, and Jonah nods reluctantly.

“I just don’t like splitting up any more than we have to,” he offers by way of an apology, and she squeezes his shoulder before grabbing my notebook and ripping a piece of paper from it.

“Okay.  Let’s get moving on this.  What are we looking for?  Last time Cole was seen in public and where?  Last time Gomez was seen?  Who was with Tennireef at dinner?...”  Rattling off questions faster than she can write them down, she pulls us into a circle around her, sparking the others into action.  As Walker, Jonah, and Lachy add to Gemma’s paper, I step back and watch them, taking a deep breath.

Make the right lists, ask the right questions, don’t let anything slip, don’t let a single ball drop, and maybe, maybe this time things will go right.   Find the right weak point, then find Kai.  We’re not as broken anymore, not like we were.  And I’m not trapped on the wrong side of the mirror, looking out at the world passing by.  I’m through to the other side now, surrounded by an unrelenting family.  So now, when the lists keep growing, icy panic doesn’t flood my heart.  I know she’s out there, so close I can almost smell hibiscus on the wind, mixing with the cold salt air.  Now I am sure, am certain.  It’s not hope.  It’s knowledge.  Stay calm, Deo.  Listen.  Watch.  Don’t miss anything.  And you will get her back.

Going to the Quiet Place

Maela

Turning my face to the sunshine, I take a moment to breathe in the scent of camellia and sigh, savoring a rare moment of peace.  There’s a bee droning among the blossoms, and a tortoiseshell butterfly flits overhead as my blackbird calls to its mate, the bright notes ringing through the garden.  I could almost be content, if I weren’t so worried about Kailani and Dr. Beaufort weren’t so worried about me.

We still haven’t quite sorted out my medications, not yet, but I’ve responded well to the latest one.  Apparently.  I panicked when she gave me the inhaler, memories welling up like water through peat moss, but nothing happened.  Dr. Beaufort’s not happy, I can tell, but I’m too tired to care.  Closing my eyes, I let myself slump against the weathered stone bench.  Maybe, just maybe, I can grab forty winks?

“Here you are, Maela!  I thought you’d come to the garden.  You have a visitor.”  Nurse dye-job gestures to a figure standing behind her.  For a moment, I can only see a shadow and then, “Senator Tennireef!” I gasp.

“Hello, Maela!  It is Maela, isn’t it?  No, no.  Don’t get up.  May I join you?”  

Dumbfounded, I nod, taking in the gelled, dark-brown hair; the clean-shaven, square jaw; the light-blue eyes sparkling with amusement; and the manicured hands, nails buffed and filed.  I don’t know what to say.

“So, Maela, how have you been doing?”  His voice oozes charm.

“Fine, thank you.”  I scoot back a little, afraid he might accidentally touch me; I don’t want to carry his taint.  

“Please don’t be nervous.  I may be a senator, but I promise you I’m also just an ordinary guy.”  He chuckles, and I want to gag.  

“And when I learned that a fellow American had been attacked and left for dead, I just had to reassure myself that she was being well cared for.  Of course, I can see that you’re in the best of hands.”  He throws a smile towards Dye-job, who simpers.

That doesn’t make sense.  Americans must get injured all over the world, all the time.  What makes me so special?

“So, Maela.  You don’t remember anything about the attack?”

I shake my head.  Yes, but not the actual attack.  Just the one my brain made up.  The princess goes to a ball and hits her head on a lamp post.  The end. 

“Your assailant – you don’t remember what he looked like?  Or ‘she’ – mustn’t be sexist!”  He chuckles, and I suppress a shudder.

“Height?  Weight?  Hair color?  Eye color?  No?  Not even a voice?”

I shake my head again, and he cocks his own.  “Well, let me assure you that your government is working with the British police to find and bring him to justice.  The safety of our citizens is our primary concern.”  He pauses, looking earnestly into my eyes, and I can only tip my head.   

“But I understand that there have been some unfortunate after-effects.  Some…”

“Confabulations,” Dye-job rushes to supply the term.

“Ah, yes.  Confabulations.  Your brain’s way of making sense of things.”

“That’s right,” Dye-job confirms.  “So, Maela here dreamed she was a secret agent.”

“A secret agent!  Goodness. Well, that makes sense.  You wanted to protect yourself?”  He’s speaking to me but looks inquiringly at Dye-job.

“Yes, Senator,” she nods.  “Quite common for someone to dream of getting revenge after such an attack.  Though Maela being Maela took things one step further.”  She laughs, the sound odd and discordant, the cackle of a raven.

Senator Tennireef arches an eyebrow, and I squirm.  “Do tell,” he wheedles.

“You were convinced you had a superpower, weren’t you, Maela?  Telesthesia.  The ability to see distant events as they happen in real time.”

“Fascinating.”  Tennireef searches my face.  “Is that right?”

I shrug and trace my toe over the grass.

“Now where did that come from, I wonder.”

“Oh, Maela is intensely curious, aren’t you dear?  Her need to ferret out secrets is almost pathological.”

“That’ll be the academic in you.”  Tennireef flashes me another smile.  “Don’t tell the papers, but I’m a student of the occult myself.”  I nod, trying to think of something suitable to say, but evidently he’s not looking for a response.  “Oh yes, I find all things supernatural beguiling.  And believable, believe it or not!”  He laughs again, a little self-deprecatingly.  “Why not?  Where do all the stories come from?  No smoke without fire!  What about you, Maela?  What do you think?”

I lift my shoulders again.

“So, tell me more.  I’m utterly intrigued.  Telesthesia.  How did it work?”

“Senator,” Dye-job interrupts, glancing quickly around the garden, but he holds up a hand.  “I have to know.  My curiosity must be satisfied!  Did you just close your eyes and wham!  You were in another place?”

“Oh, Maela doesn’t talk about her dreams,” Dye job says tartly.  “We’ve tried to explain that she won’t get better unless she works through her issues, but she can be a stubborn little madam.”

“Well,” Tennireef pats my knee.  “Maybe that’s because she senses a less than sympathetic audience.  But I won’t laugh at you, Maela.  Student of the occult!  Remember?”  He points at himself.  “Go on.  Tell me about this ability!”

“It’s not real,” I mumble.

“What’s that?”      

“It’s not real,” I repeat, a little more loudly, twisting my fingers together.

“But wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were?”

I stare at him, confused.  

“Just think!  You could buy a lottery ticket and – oh wait, no. That’s predicting the future, isn’t it?  But telesthesia.  So, how did it work, in your dreams?”  He leans forward slightly, clasps his hands loosely around one knee.

I look up at Dye-job, then back down at the grass.  Why is he asking me all these questions?

“Would you feel better if it were just the two of us?”  He gestures with his head at Dye-job.  “Why don’t you go and wait for us over there?  You can make sure we’re not interrupted.  This is such a lovely spot.  I imagine the garden must be popular.”

She opens her mouth as if to protest, then nods and walks towards the hedge.

“There now, Maela!  There’s no one here to judge you.  Tell me about your dreams.”

“They weren’t real,” I insist, a little desperately.  They weren’t real, but they were precious, and I’ll keep them inviolate, tucked safe in my soul.

“Don’t you want them to be?”

My face must give me away before I can school it, because he nods.  “I’ll believe you, Maela,” he says softly.  “Let’s try a little experiment.  Let’s see if you really can spy on someone far away.  If it works, I’ll back you up, tell the doctors you’re not crazy, get you home.  Think about it!  And if it doesn’t, then maybe you’ll realize there’s nothing to be ashamed of, and you’ll feel comfortable opening up about your injuries.  After all, you are the victim here.  And then you can finally heal.  So, how did you start, in your dreams?”  

I shake my head, wanting away, although my heart gives a little pang at the thought of going home.  He’s clearly more delusional than I am.

“Did you close your eyes?  Why don’t you close your eyes?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Close your eyes, Maela.”  His voice is harder now; this is not a man who’s used to being disobeyed, and I cast my lashes down.  But not all the way. 

He doesn’t notice.  “Good girl.  Now, who shall we have you see?  My opponent in the primaries?”  He laughs.  “If you can see her, I’ll hire you as my campaign manager!  I know!  What about the matron, Elizabeth Cole?  Her schedule should be easy to verify.  And if you can tell me what she had for lunch, she’ll have to believe you and let you go!”

I sigh, which he takes as a sign of acquiescence.  But he’s not going to go away unless I pretend to go along with his little experiment.  

“That’s it, Maela.  Just relax and think of Nurse Cole.  What’s she doing?”

How did this man become a US senator?  And what would his voters say if they knew he was trying to get me to spy on Matron by supernatural means?  Mind you, Nancy Reagan consulted an astrologer, and, if the reports are correct, that woman advised the presidential couple on questions of diplomacy and Cold War politics.  So, I guess just about anybody can become a politician these days.  I wonder what secrets the other senators are hiding?  Sex scandals?  Insider trading?  Influence peddling?  And there are loads of secret societies, aren’t there?  You’ve got Skull and Bones and the Freemasons, and it’s all very hush hush, although to me it sounds like nudge, nudge, wink, wink, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.  Although maybe they just like running around using secret handshakes and calling each other ‘Spartacus’ and ‘Magog’.  Fun fact: George Washington was a Mason, and George Bush Sr a Bonesman, and what did he do before becoming President?  Director of the CIA.  And don’t get me started on the Bullingdon Club.

“So, Maela.  Can you see Nurse Cole?”  The senator’s voice is hushed and expectant.

Honestly, who does he think I am?  Madame Wazanga?  I yawn.  Being in the sunny garden, with my eyes half closed, even in the presence of a total asshat, senator or no, is making me even more drowsy than usual.  

“Yes, Maela?  Can you see anything?”

Maybe I can have a little fun with this, seeing as how he’s come barreling in and ordering me about, mocking me, trying to sully my beautiful dreams.  They’re not for public consumption.  Who does wanker chops think he is?  I yawn and let my head drop.  “Yes, it is wonderful.”  Just like the tomb of Tutankhamum, dickhead.

“What is it?”  

No?  OK.  What about the Oracle at Delphi?  “Seat yourself now amidships, for you are the pilot of Athens,” I mumble.

“I don’t… I don’t understand.  Is Elizabeth on a boat?  In Greece?  What’s she doing there?  Is she meeting with Edwin?”  For a moment, there’s only the hush of the garden, then he hisses, “Voulgara!” 

Umm.  Sure.  Hmm.  Who else?  Ooh – Merlin!  “The gleam of gold will blind the eyes of onlookers,” I sigh, giving my own a good rub for effect.  Dr. Beaufort would be so pissed if she knew he was here.  I’m sure being a Mt. Ida ambassador doesn’t include private meetings with funders. 

“Gold?  What?”

Yeah, fuckwit.  Keep up the act.  “I want to help you, Maela, my foot!”  You just thought you’d have a little fun with the crazy girl.  Find an amusing story for the dinner circuit.  Bit bored of the trade negotiations, are we?  How the other half live!  Doesn’t make sense to me, but then nothing makes sense nowadays.  Well, how ‘bout some Nostradamus?  “Fire do I see that from the sky will fall.”  I catch my breath and go rigid.

There’s a long silence, and I’m really tempted to open my lashes a little more to catch his expression, but I keep still.

“You don’t see anything do you?”

Oh hell.  Busted.  But let’s go out on a high note with Punxsutawney Phil.  “Shadow,” I drone.  “Six… more… weeks–”

I’m not prepared for the slap, and my eyes fly open.  “You little bitch,” he growls, and I scramble away, falling off the bench in my haste.

“Senator!”  Dye-job comes rushing over and grabs his arm.  He shakes her off and visibly gathers himself.  “This woman,” he points his finger at me, “is clearly dangerous, both to herself and others.  A liar, low-minded and cunning.”

Dye-job scowls at me.  “What have you done?”

“Nothing!” I protest, as Senator Tennireef hisses, “she’s surly and insolent.”

“Oh, Maela,” Dye-job sighs.  “I’m disappointed.  An early night for you, I think.  Come along.”  She goes to take my arm, but the senator scoffs: “That’s it?  Bed without supper?  Christ!  What happened to proper punishment?  Don’t you know how to discipline the inmates?  I think she needs some time to reflect on her behavior.”

Dye-job looks sharply at him.  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Do it,” he smiles lazily at her.  “I’ll make it worth your while.  Remember: ‘spare the rod and spoil the child.’  And then the next President of the United States can speak with you about a place in his administration.  He’s always on the lookout for loyal aides.”

Dye-job’s eyes gleam, and she twists her lips upwards.  “I wouldn’t want to be seen as derelict in my duty.  Maela,” she turns to me, “I’m afraid you need to learn that lying is a vice.  A few hours of quiet contemplation should teach you always to tell the truth.”

“Quiet?” I whisper, going pale.

“Yes, dear.  Somewhere you won’t be disturbed.”  She clasps my shoulder, the nails digging in.

“Nice seeing you again, Maela,” the senator smirks as Dye-job marches me away.          

◆◆◆

Stygian.  That’s a good word.  Stygian.  Stygian gloom, dank and dismal.  From Styx, the river of the dead, the “hateful one”, daughter of Night and Darkness.  Down, down, down the river you go, into the depths, the dank and sunless cold, to expiate your sins.  Forever and ever and ever…  Buck up, Maela!  You haven’t been here that long.  An hour, maybe?  Kai’s spent the night here, and she’s survived.  

I shiver on the bench.  The blackness is pure and undiluted.  I reach my hands before my face and can feel my eyes straining, but I’m blind.  I should get up, get my blood moving, but I huddle into the corner, waiting.  Orpheus came for Eurydice, conquered the underworld with his song, then he looked back, and she faded away.  Back into eternal shade.  And the Maenads came and tore him apart and his head sang as it floated in the waters.  No one is coming for you, Maela.  No one is coming.  I should sing to myself, maybe, to pass the time, but I’m afraid the darkness will swallow my voice…  I’ll play music in my head.  Music.  Shimmering quicksilver notes.  I remember.  Guitar strings soft and coaxing.  The smell of ginger, garlic, and chilies and a tone-deaf voice warbling gracelessly.  I giggle, and up ahead I see a blacker spot within the darkness, onyx within the pitch.  Intrigued, I walk towards it, and now I can see a small light, the flicker of a candle, and my heart gives a little leap, and then I’m running, running, running.

A familiar face comes into view.  He’s grown his hair out a little longer; the inky black strands tousled.  I approve.  I’d like to run my fingers through the cool silk of it, cup the strong jaw, tickle the shell of the slightly too big ear.  But I frown to see that the eyes of imperial jade are dull and the amber-brown forehead, wrinkled.

I inch a little closer.  He’s peering at the screen of a laptop and muttering under his breath.  Rude words, if my scant knowledge of Hindi is anything to go by.  They were the ones I wanted to learn first.

The kitchen door opens, and I look up and feel myself melting all over again.  He’s let his stubble grow back in.  I liked him clean-shaven, but I think I like him shaggy more.  It suits his personality, all rough and tumble and a little ragged around the edges.  He’s barefoot, and I’m charmed to see a few dark hairs curling on the big toes.  Jeans – faded almost to nothing at the knees – and a – I frown again – quite frankly manky tee-shirt complete the can’t-be-arsed look.  Oh, Seef.  Washing machines are our friends.

Kavi looks up and grunts.

“Nice to see you too, buttercup.”  Seef goes to the cupboard, opens it, and scowls.  “Did you eat the last of the peanut-butter cookies?”

“Maybe.”  Kavi looks back down at his computer.

“Maybe?” Seef growls.  “Maybe?”  He crosses his arms, and I see with a pang that the skin of his stump is angry and red.  Has he been working out with his prosthetic too much?

“Next time, write your name on them.  Or here’s a thought: get an extra pack yourself.  Along with the rest of the shopping.”  My eyes widen to hear my gentle giant snarl.

“Alright, alright!  Don’t get your knickers in a twist.  What’s eating you?”

“Apart from the fact that I’m not making any headway?”

“No new leads?”

Kavi leans back in his chair and rubs his hand frustratedly over his face.  “No new bodies with tattoos, not the ones we’re looking for at least.  The ouroboros, the sickle, and the hourglass.  Or a combination of OT, S, and numbers.  Marked in henna on victims of trafficking.  Or gang members.  Or imitation gang members.  We have victims of trafficking.  But Kronos aren’t the only human traffickers.  And as Gaia is very publicly involved in the campaign against trafficking, the coincidence between the location of a group of victims and a Gaia shelter isn’t conclusive.  The women discovered in Seattle are the last known victims; Kronos must have got spooked and either temporarily suspended operations or are being extra careful.  And we still don’t know what the women were injected with.  If CDS or Babylon know, they’re not sharing.  Not with us.  Any news from Walker?  I don’t suppose they found out anything else before they had to leave?”

Seef shakes his head.  “Not a dicky bird.  It’s too risky to communicate.”  He goes to the fridge and grabs a Sprite.  “Let’s review.  Kronos uses the tattoos to mark their victims.  The ones who’ve been dumped show signs of drug use.  Could be to control the women, but Kronos could also be testing compounds.  Are these recreational drugs, a money-spinner?  Possibly, but, given Gaia’s psychic arm, there’s more than likely something else in play.  We know from Maela’s visions–” here he looks sad, and I want to reach out and give him a hug – “that Magda complained about ‘running low.’  She has to have been talking about a drug.  ‘Partial immunity’, she said, but she was running low.”

“And we think,” Kavi says slowly, that Maela’s ability was triggered and then enhanced by the drug she took in the clinical trials.  At the time, everyone thought it was a weird side effect.”

“But maybe it wasn’t a side effect at all.  Or at least, not an unintended one.”  Seef strokes his chin.  “Maela and I speculated that Magda herself had an ability.”

“A drug to turn on an ability,” Kavi muses.

“And a drug to turn it off,” Seef finishes.  “I spoke to my bosses at Babylon, before Captain Glockenspiel kicked us up the jacksie.  There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, in the research about any compounds that can confer psychic abilities.  Maela is the only one in the trial who reacted the way she did.  Babylon thinks there’s something unique about her brain.”

“Which is why Elizabeth wanted her.”  Kavi looks sick.

“So Elizabeth is experimenting, testing on victims of trafficking–”

“And volunteers for clinical trials,” Kavi interjects. 

“She’s found a compound that can unlock a latent ability–”

“And maybe block it.”

“And now she’s taking it to the next level. Which is why–”

“Babylon is playing kissy face with Gaia,” Kavi grimaces.

Seef looks at him.  “Well said.”  He runs his hand over his cropped hair.  “Aw fuck.  I need to talk to Emlyn again.”

“Is it too much to hope that he’s found the website for a Sacred Arches spa in Europe?”

Seef snorts.  “What do you think?”

“And Gaia hasn’t registered a drug treatment center somewhere in the British countryside?  Elizabeth doesn’t have a rural retreat complete with address and postcode?”

“Now you’re just being facetious.”

“Yeah.”  Kavi slams his hand on the desk, making me jump.  “Why can’t we find them, Seef?  MI5, MI6, the CIA, and the FBI, and we have nothing?  Where the fuck has she taken them?”

Seef smiles mirthlessly.  “If I knew that, do you think I’d be standing here talking to you?”  He tosses the can in the recycling bin and goes to the door.  “Later.”

Kavi sits in silence for a long minute, and then he lifts his head and gazes at me unseeingly.  “Where are you, priya?”

Here, I say, but my words fall uselessly into the void.

He sighs, then murmurs softly, as if remembering: “You’ve taken the east, and you’ve taken the west from me; / the road behind me and the road before.”  He rubs the back of his neck and looks down at the computer. 

I stretch my hand towards him, tears tracking down my face, then there’s the sound of the door opening, and I’m blinking at the sudden intrusion of light.  Dye-job’s standing before me, looking furtive.  “Alright, missy,” she snaps as she advances into the room.  “I hope you’ve learned your lesson on why we should never be rude to guests.”  She grabs me by the arm and pulls me to my feet.  “I’ve decided I won’t report you.  Your time for reflection was punishment enough, wasn’t it?”  She looks with satisfaction at my wet cheeks, and I nod as she continues.  “I won’t even mention that Senator Tennireef was here, and I’d advise you to do the same.  Dr. Beaufort, Ms. Garner, Matron – they’d be so upset if they knew how badly you’d behaved, and we wouldn’t want them to send Kailani here again, would we?  You know how irritating she can be, and they might decide to punish her in your place.”

I shake my head as she drags me into the corridor.  No, I wouldn’t want that.    

◆◆◆

Later, as I’m lying under the thin coverlet, counting the cracks in the ceiling paint, the words first spoken all those centuries ago come rolling into my head: “You’ve taken the east, and you’ve taken the west from me; / the road behind me and the road before; you’ve taken the moon, and you’ve taken the sun from me; / and I fear you have taken the God I adore.”  I savor the lament, embracing the pain of the long-dead lover like my own.  Kavi, Seef, Jorge, Emlyn: the lords of the four quarters of my earth.  I’d sleep forever if I could only stay with them.

I live in the here and now, though, and I can’t abandon myself to dreams.  We need to leave Mt. Ida and soon.  This new drug the nurses have been giving Kailani, it’s not good for her – it makes her… spacey.  And as for me!  

Am I regressing?  I feel a sudden chill at the thought, and a swirl of nausea curdles my stomach.  Please no.  I’m getting better.  Everyone says so.  There’s a chance I could get back to who I was before.  But why did I dream of the guys?  I haven’t dreamed of them since waking from the coma.  I pick at the coverlet, worrying at my lip.  Maybe the doctors missed something; maybe the scanner MRI-thingy didn’t pick up a lesion deep, deep, deep in the folds of my cranial lobes.  Maybe it was hidden by all the swelling, and the doctors thought they’d checked everything out, but they hadn’t, and all this time the wound’s been slowly seeping into the surrounding tissues, and now I’m starting to dream again because my head is a ticking time bomb.

No!  No, no, no.  I take a deep breath.  You were scared, Maela.  Senator Asshat scared you, and you dreamed of the guys because your subconscious was trying to protect you.  Remember?  Just like when you were mugged.  That’s all it is.  I wiggle on the mattress; there’s a spring about to go, and it’s starting to poke into the small of my back.  After all, the only other possibility is…  I shake my head.  And that would make you a Bonkers McNutjob, because supernatural abilities do not exist outside of books.  You’re an academic; you know that.  And you need to keep your wits about you, missy.  You’ve got a cottage to get to.  And you’ve got to be strong for you and Kailani both, because if she has a relapse and you’re away with the fairies, where will you end up?  Back here.    

I glance over at Kailani’s sleeping form.  Stick to the plan, Maela.  The plan!  I laugh softly to myself.  Not so much a plan as a sieve.  Where have I heard that before?  I frown, trying to corral my thoughts.  Right.  “F” Day.  Funders’ Day.  Fuck-Off Day.  People will be distracted, looking after the bigwigs.  At least, I hope they will.  So all Kailani and I have to do is wait until they’re all at the evening reception, then creep out of the room, scurry down the hallway and to the east wing, slip down the staircase to the garden door, run across said garden, and disappear into the woods.  Without being seen.  

I sigh and punch the pillow.  If only my mind wasn’t so damned fuzzy!  I know I could figure it out.  I just… I just need to think.  I rootle into the mattress, trying to find a comfortable position.  We can’t leave from the room, can we?  There’s no way to disable the camera.  So, maybe if I can volunteer for dishwashing duty and then Kailani pretends to be sick or something, so she has to go to the infirmary?  But that won’t work, will it, because the nurse will just escort her back.  But maybe if I just happened to intercept them and volunteer to walk Kailani back?  Would they let me?...   Oh, fuck a flying duck!  No wonder I dreamed of the guys.  We could really use a knight on a white charger right about now.  

They’re not real, Maela, my mind admonishes.  You need to get your own ducks in a row.  Everything was just a dream.  It wasn’t real.

But wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were?

Lost in the Garden

Kailani

I wake up in a rush of sound and color, the transition from dreaming to waking so sudden that, when I open my eyes, my dreams still overlay reality.  For a brief, physically painful second, I don’t see blank, white walls and an empty room, but a warm kitchen with a heavy farm table, a plate-glass window overlooking mountains, and the curve of a man’s back turned away from me, more of a shadow than a person.  They’re here! my voice rejoices, still caught in slumber, and my heart stops in excruciating happiness, then stutters back reluctantly as everything fades away.  The weight of someone’s presence nearby forces me to bury my crippling grief and focus.

At the end of my bed sits a woman I have never seen before, legs crossed elegantly, brow raised in a doubtful look, lips pursed in thought as she stares at me.  She’s tall, even sitting, with caramel hair cut in choppy layers around her oval face, and is clearly comfortable here, though she isn’t dressed like a nurse or an orderly.  Really, she doesn’t look like anyone else at Mt. Ida – patient or provider.  She’s too bright, too rich, too deep of a color in a near colorless world.  Stunningly pretty in a cold, frozen way – the type of siren that leads men to jump off their ships and drown.  And her obvious interest in me, for whatever reason, doesn’t seem to mean good things for Kailani, so the safest course of action seems to just wait and see what happens.  When in doubt, wait it out, my voice whispers sleepily, and I have to say, I totally agree.  Blank.  Agreeable.  Empty.  Got it.

Whatever she sees on my face evidently displeases her, because her long nose wrinkles in distaste, as though I’ve done something to personally offend her.  “This can’t be it,” she mutters under her breath, still staring at me.  “This is what I have in my toolbox?  You’re basically a mushroom, for lack of a better term.”

“You’re basically a bitch, and that’s the perfect term,” I snap back before I have time to think it through.  Oh Christ, Kailani.  Control!  What happened to blank and empty?  She started it! I reply defensively, but my voice is evidently fed up with me and doesn’t say anything.

My response evidently amuses the woman, though, because she smirks, full mouth twisting in a mockery of a smile, and rises to her feet with a kind of insolent grace.  Her movements remind me of a cougar, deceptive laziness distracting from lethal beauty, and my mind is suddenly on full alert, some long-ago training from a winter’s hike surging to the front.  Don’t look away!  Don’t turn your back!  They’re scared of loud noises and movement!  

Right, then.  Noise and movement.  Throwing off my thin blanket, I leap to my feet and scream as loudly as I can in a sudden eruption of chaos.  The woman startles back, only slightly, and her brown eyes flare in surprise, then widen even more when I collapse back onto the bed, overcome with a manic laughter.

“I… I… you should have seen your face!”  I can barely get the words out, breath wheezing, tears streaming down my cheeks.  “Oh my God!  That was fucking hilarious!  You were like… OooOOoooO!!!”

“Charming,” she replies dryly.  Actually, to her credit, most people would have fallen over backward if someone had leapt out of bed at them with that much promised violence.  She barely flinched.  The thought drains the laughter from me as quickly as it came, and while I can tell the sloshing ebb-and-flow of my emotions are somewhat alarming to her, to me, they are my new normal.  My old normal?  Was I ever normal?  I don’t know.  You do know, my voice whispers, but I don’t have time to argue with it right now.  

She sighs in obvious frustration, clearly impatient with me already.  “I find it difficult to believe you’re worth this much trouble,” the woman says cryptically.  Staring down at me with very evident contempt, she taps one long, manicured nail against her cheek, chin resting on her palm as she scrutinizes me.  “I have to tell you, you’re making it very difficult to be confident in any sort of plan.”  Pursing her lips again, she cocks her head thoughtfully, brow furrowed consideringly, as though she is taking my measure and finds me very wanting.  She huffs in indecision, then checks her watch, before looking back at me.  “Are you a complete mushroom?  I wonder…”

Walking forward until her standing body is mere inches from my own seated one, she bends over and locks eyes with me in some sort of unspoken challenge.  I fight every instinct to lean away from her, and just freeze, unblinking, because while I may not understand the stakes, I know a game to win when I see one.   We stay that way, motionless, faces uncomfortably close to each other, until she smiles and nods in apparent satisfaction.  “Well.  That’s encouraging at least.”  Making a fist, she raps playfully on my forehead.  “Knock-knock,” she whispers mockingly.  “Is anybody home?  Hello?”

This one is certifiable, my voice murmurs, and I’m in full agreement.  Watch where you step right now, Kailani.  This is something different.

Evidently, my lack of response doesn’t bother her, because she checks her watch again, before snapping her fingers in my face to capture my attention.  “Well.  Needs must, I suppose.  If you’re what I have to work with…”  She exhales sharply, displeasure clear in every line on her face.  “We have things to accomplish.”  Stepping away, she turns her back and sways towards the door in fluid, dancer-like steps.  Without looking over her shoulder, she snaps, “Now, Kailani!” and the tigerlike viciousness in her voice pulls me abruptly to my feet.  I have gotten too used to following directions to ignore such confidently ordered ones.  “Chop-chop.  We don’t have time to waste.”  

Careful now, Kai.  Careful.  I scuttle like a crab after her as she leads me down a series of unusually empty hallways, through a courtyard I have never seen before, and finally to a clear-paned set of French doors, which open into a beautiful hedgerow maze.  Where is everyone?  My voice is worried.  It’s hazy outside, gauzy light diffused through an otherworldly mist, the silence surrounding me suffocating and unnerving.  Are… are we still asleep?  That it’s asking me that question, and with such uncertainty, makes me anxious, but the feel of the woman’s cold hands wrapping around my arm, nails digging into my skin, pull me from my thoughts.

“Christ.  What in the world do they have you on?” she bites out, clearly irritated.  Pulling me along behind her, she finally rounds a corner where a damp, grey, stone bench is nestled in a heavy curve of hedge.  “Sit.  Stay,” she commands, as you would a poorly behaving dog, and shoves me down, holding up a hand to forestall any questions.  “I need you to just stay here.”  She speaks slowly, like you would to a young child.  “Do you understand what I’m saying?  Just.  Stay.”

A small ember of rebellion glows in my stomach.  “I’m not stupid, lady.”  

Her mouth curls into a cruel smile.  “I sincerely hope not.  I’ve got a lot riding on you.”  Checking her watch again, she shakes her head.  “You’re putting on a good imitation, though.  Just – don’t move,” she cautions, and then walks around the corner of the thick hedgerow and disappears.  Everything is silent for a heartbeat, two, three, and then…

“Fallon.  Fancy meeting you here.”  The woman’s voice is edged with amused affection, different from the exasperation from moments before.  “Or should I say Athena?”  A half-teasing, half-mocking tone dances in the words.

Athena?  Athena!  Kailani, pay attention!  Oh my gods, pay attention!  I’m too tired, though, and want to drift back into the world in my dreams, where there are mountains and meadows, and men with soft eyes and rough hands.  But some part of my brain panics at my wandering, and the shot of adrenaline clears my head.  

“... we’re being so formal, Aphrodite!”  A second, laughing voice, one I don’t recognize immediately, has been talking whilst I’ve been away with the fairies.  

“Well, big promotion and all.  I have to say, I’m a little surprised!  I thought earning your sickle would cause you some issues…”

It’s a leading statement, and there is a heavy pause, before Fallon replies, voice purposefully light.  “Oh, now.  Things like that aren’t a problem for me, as long as my manicure matches the occasion.  And I find crimson such a delightful color.”

“Well, well.  And here I thought you couldn’t get any more attractive.  Carmine would look delectable on your hands.”  Aphrodite’s voice is a purr and a coo, a lure bobbing on the water.  No fish are biting yet, though.  “I’m not sure if I should offer congratulations or condolences, though, given the way things are going currently.”  It’s an invitation, but cautiously so, as though she’s unsure of the lay of the land.

Silence fills the space, longer than I would be comfortable with if I had been the one on the receiving end, then, casually, “Why would you say that?”

All the triumph of a fisherman pulling in a large catch is in Aphrodite’s reply.  “Oh.  I probably shouldn’t have said anything.  Just… well.  You know.”

Fallon is hesitant and responds with an indistinct sound.  “Hmmm.”  No matter how she may try to disguise it, the hint of it flavors her answer.  “What are you implying?”  She’s curt, voice tight.  Unexpected!  The fish must have some fight in it, pulling back against the line.

“Fallon… I’ve always thought of you as a friend…”  Chess pieces being moved on a board, my voice whispers.  Watch for the pawns.  Watch for the knights.  Watch for the queens.  There are two, you know.  There are always two.  What about the kings? I ask, and it sighs.  The kings are figureheads, Kailani.  The queens control the board.  Pay attention.  

“I wouldn’t have thought you had friends, Magda?”  It’s teasing, though, so clearly Fallon likes the other woman, in some way or another.

“Of a sort, Fallon.  Of a sort.  Friends sometimes make better family than blood, don’t you think?”  It’s a minefield, this conversation, every step chosen with careful precision.  Promises are being made in casual syllables.  “Friends can tell each other when they disagree.  Friends don’t have to follow orders blindly.  They… help each other.  Listen to each other.”

Another pause.  “What would you tell me, if we were friends?”

“Oh, you know.  I’d trust you enough to warn you that Rhea is losing her spine.  That she’s getting in bed with someone who wants her to be the Madonna, not the Whore.  They don’t like the tricks she’s learned between the sheets, you know.  Or rather, they like her skills but don’t want her learning any new ones…  Want her to be a born-again virgin.  Wash her clean in the waters.  And leave her wanton ways behind her once the wedding occurs.  They want to benefit from her time on the streets without looking too closely at how she’s learned to dance with the devil with such grace.  As long as she shows up to church on Sunday, white dress and hair tied in a bow, they’ve made promises upon promises to her.”

Fallon inhales sharply.  “If this were true, when would this become public?”

“Soon.  Very, very soon.”

“Has she told anyone?”  A thread of hurt weaves through her words.  “What will happen to the company?”

I can almost hear Magda shrug.  “I don’t know who is in her inner circle these days.  I would have thought at least you would have known by now…”  A hint of affected surprise, salt in the wound.  

“If she hasn’t told me, I would assume she hasn’t told anyone.”  

“Well.  Someone knows, Fallon.  Because I know.  And I didn’t find out from Rhea.  But she hasn’t told the Pantheon, as far as I know.  And I’m not entirely sure what will happen to the company.  She can’t honestly expect someone like Ares to go quietly into that good night.  Some will follow her blindly.  They always have, always will.  But some – well.  That’s why I’m here.  Talking to you.”

“I expect you have a tally already, Aphrodite.”  Fallon’s reply is sharp, thoughtful.  She may not be entirely comfortable with the conversation, but she’s clearly smart, considering her moves on the board before making them.  “You may as well just tell me.”

“If I were guessing…”  The teasing tone is back.  “I’d say Ares.  Hades, of course.”  Magda’s voice warms into a purr of sound, “I’d love to put Athena on that list.  I think we’d be quite the team, in more ways than one.”

Fallon’s breath catches, though she tries to hide it.  I imagine if Magda turned the full force of her beauty on someone who was… receptive… to it, it would be difficult to look away.  Magda continues, tone thick with satisfaction, like the cat that got the cream.  “Hera is an unknown.  Beaufort’s – well, you know Hera.  Research is too important to her to go without some complaint, but you know Rhea’s suitors don’t mind a little back-alley action.  If Iara’s given enough space for her labs and potions, she’ll follow along behind Rhea like a good little puppy.  Hestia will go where Hera goes – you know Estie follows Iara lockstep.  Apollo… well, I’ve heard whispers that his sun is setting soon.  So sad.”  Her tone couldn’t be less sad if she tried.  

Fallon doesn’t respond immediately but finally says – trying and failing to keep her tone level – “She can’t… she wouldn’t after she’s put so much time… he’s not replaceable…”

“Oh dear, oh dear.”  Magda clicks her tongue mockingly.  “I must say, I thought you smarter than that.  ‘Not replaceable’?  Don’t you know by now there are always understudies for the major roles?  Except mine, of course,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.  “And he still hasn’t earned his sickles, so he’s not cemented his position.”

“She told me…” Fallon’s voice drifts off into a sort of betrayed realization.  “She… she told me…”

“And does Rhea always share her secrets with you, little owl?  Because here are two gleaming chestnuts that have been hidden from your view.”  Magda is smooth chocolate, but with a bite of chili in it.  Something unexpected has caught her attention.

Fallon’s reply is stiff, guarded.  “I am her personal assistant.  Of which you are perfectly aware.”  Caution, clear as day, has taken hold and pulls her from the fog of Magda.  “If she hasn’t told me, there may be a reason.”

“And yet, I am telling you.  Trusting you.  Because I believe you will make the right choice, if you are given all the information.  Unless…”  There's a hint of sarcasm in her voice, as though she’s sharing a secret with Fallon, “maybe I’ve misjudged you, and you want to go straight.”

Fallon laughs in reply.  “You know the answer to that, on several levels, Magda.”

“Well then.  You tell me.  Is it worth it if we continue this conversation?”  Layers upon layers in her words, promises of nights in silk sheets and shared power.

“Oh, I’m open to all opportunities…”

“Then let’s discuss who is still on the board.  Dionysus is a piece to play for, with his wealth and connections.  I don’t know how to pull him in though.”  This is clearly frustrating for Magda to admit, and Fallon makes a low hum of consideration.

“Does he have any attachments anywhere?”  A tap-tap-tapping of sound, as though fingers were running over a tablet.  “I’ll look into things.  What about Poseidon?  I haven’t heard heads or tails from him in ages.”

Magda is mocking again.  “Goodness, she does keep you out of the loop, doesn’t she?  He’s here at the moment, or so my sources tell me.”

“Why would he be here?”  Surprise is clear in her voice, and growing anger, but there is only silence in response.  “Well, will he help?” Fallon bites out sharply, as though the previous question wasn’t asked.

Magda croons, a happy little demented song.  “Oh, he’ll help.  A little insect has caught his attention, so if we promise to give it to him at the end of all this for him to dissect, he’ll be happy to assist.

“Hmm.”  It’s not an answer, just an acknowledgement of what was said.  “Who is left?”

“Zeus.”  A long, long pause, and then a bitter, biting whisper of sound, “Hephaestus.”  A short laugh.  “I’d say Artemis…”

“Well.  Obviously not Artemis.  But Zeus?  Maybe?”  Tap-tap-tap, and a quick intake of breath.  “Did you see this?  About Dionysus?”  A little trill of triumph in her words almost drowns out Magda’s shocked intake of breath.

“No.  Where did you find that?”

“Tsk, tsk, Aphrodite.  There’s a reason I am who I am.  Let me start sending out feelers.”

“Quietly,” Magda cautions.  “Very, very quietly.  When the bride signs the marriage certificate, there’s no going back.  You understand?  Rhea has set the board to win, and you can’t underestimate her.”

Whatever Fallon’s reply would have been is lost in a sharp, cracking sound, a branch being snapped, and I can tell someone is walking toward us.  I’m not sure what to do, where to go – I am positive I am not allowed to be here, wherever here is, and I panic.  Quiet, fleeing footsteps indicate that the two women on the other side of the hedgerow have disappeared and left me to whatever evil approaches.  Go to sleep, Kailani.  Just lie down and pretend to sleep.  There’s no time for questions, so I drop to the damp ground and curl up into a tight ball, forcing my breathing to soften.

“Well, what?”  A startled voice bounces off the mist and stone, echoing in the dreamlike silence.  Hands shake me.  I open my eyes, blinking blearily up at a round-faced nurse who has had my care several times before.  She is caught between confusion and suspicion.  “I know you’re not allowed to be here.  What in the world are you doing?”

Looking around, rubbing my eyes, I sit up in a sudden lurch of motion.  “Where am I?”  The question is real, and truth rings in my frantic voice.  I don’t know where I am, and if the fear in my voice is due to discovery rather than waking up in an unknown place, she won’t be able to tell the difference.  “What… what…?”

The nurse’s stance relaxes slightly, and she tilts her head, taking my appearance in consideringly.  I’m still in my sleeping clothes, now damp from the wet from the cold ground, and the little hair that is still on my head is a mess.  I’m sure I have tired bags beneath my eyes, my feet are bare, my skin covered in goosebumps from the cold.  It is clear, however I got here, that I didn’t plan on being in the garden.  

“Did they change your medicine?” she asks, taking a small notepad out of her pocket and flipping through it.  I stare at her through wide, unfocused eyes, trying to seem as dazed as possible.  Blink-blink-blink.  “Kailani?”  She snaps her fingers in front of me, and I smile at her gently, face soft.

“Hello.  Are you new here?  I’m Kailani,” I say sweetly, like a child, and she sighs.

“I swear,” she mutters under her breath as she helps me to my feet and then pushes me gently down to sit on the bench.  “If they don’t find the right dosing soon, they’re going to leave you a vegetable.  Kailani, dear?”  She tries to get me to focus on her.  “We’re going to go back to your room now.  Alright?  Have you ever sleep-walked before?”  

“Before when?” I ask stupidly, and she sighs.  

“For goodness sake.  Back to bed with you this morning.  I’ll let Matron know that you’re on night watch until they figure out what’s going on with your medication.  We wouldn’t want you to get hurt now, would we?”  An unnecessary warning is heavy in her voice.  “Well, then.  Let’s not have you catch a cold.  Here, have these, and then we’ll head inside.”

I stare at the pills – tiny, innocent circles on her hand – and reach out slowly to take them from her.  I know these pills.  These are the ones that chase away my dreams.  That leave fuzzy, cotton-candy clouds in their place.  I usually love these; they make me forget who I am and where I am, make this place bearable because they erase everything for a little while.  And I haven’t refused their medicine in a long, long time.  My right eye twitches, just a little, a bone-memory of the last time I tried.  But, a tiny whisper threads through the doubt, this time, chance it.  Please.  You need to remember.  My eye twitches again.

“Kailani?”  An uneasy note enters her tone, and I look up from her hand.

“Oh!  Hello!  Are you new here?  I’m Kailani.”

Real worry creases her face, and she curls her fingers around the pills, pulling them back towards her body.  Crouching down, she studies me.  “What did they give you last night?” she asks, concern clear as she checks my pulse, shines a small, bright flashlight in my eyes.  “Was it the new nurse?  She’s been misdosing all week.”  She bites her lip, flicking her eyes back and forth between her closed hand and my face, indecision written in every movement.  Flick-flick, flick-flick.  Then, “Let’s just get you back inside and warmed up.  Worth more than my job if I make this worse than it already is.  Just – let’s just get you cleaned up and back in bed, and when you wake up, we’ll see how you’re doing.”

I nod complacently.  “Whatever you say.”

“Oh goodness.”  She huffs and leads my unresisting body back inside.  It takes everything in me to keep my face blank, soft, unresponsive, as the voice in my head screams and screams.

Athena!  Aphrodite!  Rhea!  What is real anymore?  I don’t know if this is a new game, a new form of torture.  I don’t know if they’re playing with me or what their plans are.  Pretending that my shadows were more than a dream?  The thought chokes me.  What is real?  What is real?  They’re trying to trick me.  I’ll whisper what I heard in my sleep, and they’ll break me into pieces.  If my shadows were real, they would have found me by now.  Unless… unless they don’t want me.  They don’t want me?  They don’t want me.  And for no reason, no reason at all, I start crying, tears streaming unchecked down my face.  

The nurse glances back at me, eyes widening, and pauses.  “Are you – are you alright, dear?”

Breath hiccupping from the effort it takes not to sob, I force my mouth to smile, a grotesque twist of my lips into a mockery of comedy’s masque.  “Hello!” I say through gasping breaths.  “Are you new here?  I’m Kailani.  I’m Kailani.  I’m Kailani…”  My voice trails off, lost in tears, and the nurse takes my hand, pulling me along behind her to my room, where she tucks me carefully into bed.  Laying one soft hand on my forehead, she uses the other to radio a call into someone.  “... It’s not my fault.  Blame Phos!  He’s been filling her up with no concern for consequence!  He’s going to break her, if he hasn’t already!...  In the Stone Garden, completely out of it…  Need to adjust her medication.”

Closing my eyes, I force myself to still.  I don’t want to forget what I overheard, but I don’t want to remember.  Because even the hint that the secret shadows curled up in the corners of my mind might be real, even the breath of a possibility, fills me with such hope that it threatens to crack my bones to fragments.  The hope will kill me, tear me limb from limb, until all that is left behind is my pathetically bloody heart, forced to beat, vulnerable on the ground.  Maybe, maybe, maybe, it will say, over and over, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.  There is no maybe! I try to tell it.  There is no maybe!  But the voice in my head is on panicked repeat, and I lie, frozen in bed, listening to it cry out names, over and over and over.  Rhea, Artemis, Aphrodite.  Walker, Jonah, Lachy.  Hera, Zeus, Apollo.  Hideo, Maddox, Gemma.  Remember, Kailani.  This is your chance.  Remember.  

Rusted Cogs and Gears

Maela

“Uggh,” I wince.  A minnow’s just darted through my stomach.  It doesn’t hurt, not exactly, but it seems an ominous harbinger of something to come.

“You OK, Maela?”  Iris’s warm, brown eyes look concerned as she passes me my pills.

“Yeah, just feeling a little delicate.”  I gesture towards my lower belly.  “Think it might be that time of the month again.”

“Oh.”  Iris looks sympathetic.  “You want me to bring you a hot water bottle?”

“Or Ibuprofen?” I ask hopefully.

Her face falls.  “Sorry: it might interfere with your meds.”

“Well,” I say peevishly, “maybe I can just skip them today.”  My stomach gives another twinge.

“Now, gyal, you know I can’t do that!  This pill keeps your blood pressure down; this one reduces swelling, and that one prevents you from having a seizure.”

“They also make me feel nauseous and jittery.”  I cross my arms and scowl; I’m feeling mulish.  

“Tantie’s a good doctor; she knows what she’s doing.  Nuh lie: she basically saved my breddah.  Now, come on.  Do I need to make airplane noises, or would you prefer a train?”

I give her a scathing look, and she laughs.  “Alright, here comes the choo-choo train!  Chugga chugga.  Chugga chugga.  Woo wooooo!  Open up!”  She smooshes the pills against my mouth, and I briefly consider keeping my lips clamped but decide I’m being childish and give in.  At least there’s cranberry juice today. 

“What do you mean,” I take the glass and gulp, “your aunt saved your brother?  Was he in an accident, like me?”

Iris shakes her head.  “Schizophrenia,” she says briefly.

“Oh,” I grimace.  “Sorry.  Like Kailani?”

“A little.  He used to hear voices.  Muma and Daadi were worried sick, but Tantie saw what was wrong and got him into a program.  He had to go to therapy for months, and he’s still on meds, but his condition’s manageable.”

I nod slowly.  “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Me too.”  Iris takes the glass and smiles.  “Tantie’s why I want to become a nurse.  Did you know she’s working on a cure for psychotic disorders?”  At the shake of my head, she nods her own.  “Mmm-hmm.  She says there’s usually a genetic component and that they’re caused by a breakdown in cellular communication, so, something goes wrong with the chemical signaling, or parts of your brain stop talking to each other.  But things like drug use or the muma’s health when she’s pregnant can also play a role.  Jelly?”

I look at the tray and yawn.  “Orange?  Pass.”

“Yeah, it’s rank.  Like, there’s no way that color exists in nature.  But I’m still going to eat yours if you don’t want it.”

“Be my guest.  So, you want to follow in your aunt’s footsteps?”

Iris cocks her head.  “Yes and no.  I want to go into medicine, but I don’t want to do research.  And I wanted something more patient-focused, so nursing seemed a good fit.  I like spending time with people.”  She spoons some Jello into her mouth.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re going to be a great nurse.”

She waves the spoon at me and smiles.  “Aw, sistren, you just made my day.  So, what do you have on this morning?  Art?  Group?  Your budding career as a Mt. Ida ambassador?”

I snort tiredly.  Iris was tickled when I told her I’d met with a member of the French Committee on Foreign Affairs.  Thinking back to who else was at the meeting, my mood darkens, but I quickly shake the feeling off.  “No, no, and no.  I have to do some journaling, and then I’m going to straighten up the library shelves.  For the life of me, I do not understand why people can’t put books back where they found them.  It’s not rocket science.”

“Reowr!”  Iris makes a noise like a scalded cat.  “Maela’s on the warpath!  That’s my cue to leave.”  She puts the now empty bowl back on the trolley.

“Everybody’s a comedian!”  I roll my eyes.  “Now bugger off!  I have very important things to be getting on with.”

“Pfft!”  Iris sticks out her tongue and waggles her pinky at me as she closes the door. 

◆◆◆

Twenty minutes later, I’m chewing on a nail and trying to think of a new way to record the dull minutiae of my days when my stomach makes a burbling noise and seizes.  There’s no time to think, but my body understands before my mind computes and leaps into action, propelling me to the bathroom, where I proceed to redecorate in spectacular fashion.

“Oh, fuuuuuuuu–” I groan before heaving again. “Fuuuuu–”  What sick mind decided that smoked fish qualified as a breakfast food?  And why did I think “kippers on toast” sounded quaint and want to try them?

Never again, I vow as my stomach gives its own verdict.  As God is my witness, I gabble frantically à la Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll never eat smoked fish again.  My guts seal the deal with a little exclamation mark, and I slump back miserably against the sink, praying that there’s nothing more to come.  I feel weak and feeble and utterly enervated.       

I’m still lying on the floor when Kailani enters the room five minutes later.  “Maela?” she calls out.  “You here?”

“No,” I whimper.

Kailani can’t help.  She’s been even more do-lally than usual lately.  The other day I found her muttering, “Rhea, Artemis, Aphrodite.  Walker, Jonah, Lachy.  Hera, Zeus, Apollo.  Hideo, Maddox, Gemma,” over and over under her breath, and I had to snap at her, “Shut up, Kailani!”  Because we can’t both regress at the same time; we’ll never get to our cottage otherwise.  And I know it’s not her fault, bless her, she’s on so many different medications, but she made me so angry.  Because I’m trying so hard, so very hard, and my recent dream made a little bud of hope blossom, tiny, pale-green leaves just peeping from a withered stem.  And hope is a terrible thing, a Venus Flytrap that swallows you whole.  There’s no place for dreams here, only dull logic and mundane reason.

The bathroom door opens, and I hear a gasp.  “Maela?  Are you OK?  What’s wrong?”

“Fish.”

I can sense rather than see her brow wrinkling.  “Fish?”

“Salted, smoked, oily fuckers.”  I huddle against the tiles.

“You ate the kippers for breakfast?” 

“You don’t need to sound so surprised.”  I pull myself up to seated and glare wanly at her.

“You had fish for breakfast!” she says accusingly, putting her hands on her hips and shaking her head.

“It was either that or oatmeal.  And I’m tired of oatmeal.  I’m not a cow.  Not all of us get toast and jam, you know.”  I know I’m being petty, but I can’t help it.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”  She advances into the room and bends down, grabbing me under the arms.

“No.  I’m going to stay right here.”

“You need to brush your teeth and take a shower.  You smell.”

“Do not,” I lie; all I can taste and smell is sick.

“Yes, you do.”  She pulls me to my feet, bracing me against the sink, and flushes the toilet.  “The things I do for you.”

I put some toothpaste on the brush, eying it disdainfully.  Fish vomit and mint.  Great, just great.

Kailani looks at me worriedly.  “You gonna be OK?” she whispers.  “I better get back into the bedroom, or someone will come running.”

We tried conferring in the bathroom once, two girly girls doing our hair.  A nurse was at the door in minutes.

I nod.  “Yeah.  I don’t think there’s anything left to come out.”  I shove the brush in my mouth and go to work, then strip and step into the shower cubicle, which looks like something out of a Soviet holiday camp.  Still, the water and algae-green soap at least leave me feeling presentable. 

“You off to the library, then?”  Kailani looks up from her journal as I walk into the bedroom and grab my uniform.  Modesty is a thing of the past.

“Mmm-hmm.  Gotta go straighten some shelves.”  I pull on the trousers and top and reach for my sneakers. 

“Bye,” she mumbles as I slip out of the room.  She’s looking absent-minded again, and I don’t think journaling is going to be much use today.  I wonder what pill she was given this morning.

◆◆◆

It’s while I’m muttering and stacking Wuthering Heights next to Pride and Prejudice – nineteenth-century British literature lives next to nineteenth-century British literature, people – that I realize I feel… different.  I purse my lips, trying to figure the sensation out.  I’m still exhausted, fatigue my constant companion, but less… wired?  I poke a careful finger at my brain.  Somehow, it feels more… stable.  I sit for a moment, watching and waiting.  Yes, the mania has subsided.  And, I note with surprise, so has the nausea.  Huh.

I shove David Eddings next to Terry Pratchett, trying to quell the bubble of excitement.  For the first time in months, I feel that maybe, just maybe, my brain might be capable of knitting itself back together.  And all I needed was a fish emetic.  Poor Dr. Beaufort and all her pills.  If she only knew!  Dr. Beaufort.  I still.  I should tell her that the last dose literally bounced so she can make a note of it in my charts, but…  I like this feeling.  Somehow, the threat of bleeding on my brain doesn’t seem so bad, not for this strange sense of calm.  Stupid, I know, to take such a risk, but…

I spend the rest of the afternoon wondering, rusty brain stopping and starting, but in the evening Nurse Nom-Nom comes in with another set of pills, and I’m back to staring at the ceiling, howling like a gibbon.

The Space Between

Kailani

Maela looks like a Halloween skeleton, her bones in sharp relief in her face, casting shadows on her parchment-white face.  She has always been petite, but this is… this is something entirely different.  I can see her blue veins running up her arms, branching out to her wrists, pulse beating furiously like butterfly wings under her skin.  Her eyes are heavy, dull, skating over things again and again as she moves robotically through her movements, a rictus smile locked on her face, teeth bared tightly as the patients line up with their books.

I finally earned back library privileges after not punching anyone for three days in a row, so I have a particularly large pile of books today.  There’s no chance I’ll make it another three days without fist-to-face interactions, so I’m taking advantage of it.  Plus, for some reason, they let Maela work in the library but won’t let her take out books.  I don’t get it.  It would be like me serving all the other inmates… oh, I mean, patients… here coffee but not being allowed any myself.  Like a weird punishment and reward all at the same time.  They can’t stop me from reading out loud in my room though – or at least, they haven’t yet – so when I do get books, I read them softly out loud before bed.  I don’t know how much she hears – I have to keep it quiet – but I hope sometimes she gets some of it.  

Maela tries to help too.  When I’m having a panic attack, when the walls are closing in and I crawl under my bed at night, feeling like my heart is going to claw its way out of my chest – Maela is always awake.  She’s not allowed out of bed – Oh gods, please never get out of bed, Maela – but she’ll whisper to me, almost a breath and nothing more, “What are five things you can hear?  What are four things you can feel…”  So we find our ways when we can.  Tiny little mouseholes of lights and friendship in a dreary, colorless world.

Shuffling slowly to the front of the line, I narrow my eyes as Maela scans the books mechanically.  When it’s my turn, I hesitate and look around casually, before making up my mind.

We haven’t been able to talk much recently.  Lately, every time we try to in our room, someone comes in with medication, or to grab one of us for some class or session or pointless exercise.  It’s bizarro world here.  If we’re getting along and chatting nicely, we’re interrupted immediately.  If we’re snapping at each other, if I’ve had blue pills and am feeling volcanic, or if Maela has just returned from a hypno session – well.  They leave us as long as they can.  Why room us together if all they want us to do is fight and turn on each other?  Maela’s the one person here I actually like, for Christ’s sake.  The one person I want to talk to.  They keep encouraging us to get along, to help each other.  But Maela only sleeps when she’s taking their side against me.  And I only get left alone when my bed is a mess or our laundry isn’t done right or I leave the bathroom out of order.  I try really hard not to – I promise I try.

It’s just… well… sometimes she makes me so mad.  Mad enough that, for just a second, I think to myself, “Just let them know all her secrets.  Tell them about her staring out the windows, how she’s hiding things from them.”  But I know they’ll ask me – what things?  What things is she hiding?  And I don’t know.   I don’t know because she won’t tell me.  She keeps them locked up inside.  Where you hide your secrets, my little voice whispers, and I wonder.  I wonder.  If only she’d talk to me.  But if she talks to you, it asks sadly, would you tell them what she said?  If it meant you’d get a break?  If it meant you’d be left alone?  I swallow the thought down, feeling sick.

Running my hand along the spine of one of the faded books in my hand, my brain tornadoes, scattered thoughts whipping around at storm-cloud speed, nothing making any sense.  The letters still glow dully in a muted gold.  Alice.  That’s who you and Maela are, Kailani.  You’re Alice in Wonderland.  And, like Carroll said, “It takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.  If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!”  I need to go twice as fast.  Twice as fast as what I’ve been doing.  I shiver.  

“You okay?” I whisper surreptitiously as she flips through each book.

She looks up at me blankly.

“Yes.  I’m fine, of course,” Maela replies, speech slurred, like her tongue is thick in her mouth, and I frown, glancing around, feeling the weight of watchful eyes.  I try my best to still myself, smooth my face.  If I’m not careful, bad things happen.  Bad, bad things.  She’s flipping the pages, counting, and her face creases like she’s going to cry as she messes up her rhythm and has to start over.  When was the last time Maela slept?  Oh.  Oh shit.  When did Maela last correct you or shake her head at you or… Shit!  I’ve been so lost in my own world lately, after the last time in the hole, that… it’s been days, I think.  Days and days and days.  

“I think…” I begin hesitantly, then pause, something like panic flaring in my stomach.  I’m not sure I can do this…  I don’t know what it will mean, but her movements are so heavy, fingers fumbling with the pages.  And she’s… just… so… tired.  Twice as fast, Kailani.  Or you’ll always be in the same place.  The voice is firm.  I clear my throat and force the words out.  “I think I’ve figured out a way to let you sleep.”  I don’t want to.  I really don’t want to.  Down, down below where the lost souls go.  You’ll never come out again.  But go below and rot below and help your only friend.  

Her eyes flare a little, the first spark I’ve seen in ages flaring to life.  “I can’t.  I never, never can,” she whispers, voice so broken and exhausted it’s kissing Death.  “Thank you for trying.”

It’s the “thank you” that decides it.  If she had said anything else, anything at all, I would have just been done with it and walked away.  But she had to say thank you.  Because she’s Maela.  And I need to run twice as fast to get us out of here.  We need to be able to run together.  And she can barely stand right now.  Maela – Maela needs to sleep.

Grabbing my stack of books, I look for a long moment at her.  And, for just a second, her eyes focus on mine.  “Kai?” she asks, suddenly uneasy.  Exhausted, barely moving, but still expending energy worrying about me.  It has to be tonight, or I’ll lose my will.  

“You’re a good friend to me, Mae,” I say, quietly.  “You’ve taken care of me.  I want you to know that I know that.  I appreciate you.”

“Kai?” she says, real concern entering her voice, but the line is moving on, and I have to go.

“Stick to the plan,” I whisper as I move past her.  “After tonight, whatever happens, just stick to the plan.”  

“Kai!”  Maela’s fully awake now, anxiousness fueling an empty tank, but I’m pushed to the side, and I drift away.

◆◆◆

The clock isn’t buzzing tonight, just blinking, flashing like a neon sign in the black room, and I watch her, waiting until her eyes close, until her body jerks a little like she’s falling, the edge of sleep taking her.  I know the path of the next few minutes like I know my own name.  We didn’t see one another the rest of the day.  They’ve been keeping us apart more and more, and I know it’s not long before they don’t let us room together at all.  It’s like they’re waiting for something. They watch us too much, find little ways to set us against each other.  It’s making Mae and me sick to our stomachs, the tension swirling around, waiting for the axe to drop.  They want us together, and against each other, all at the same time.  The only time they really let us talk is if we’re screaming in our broken moments.  We never get to help pick up the pieces afterwards, and it’s shattering us.  

We’ve been careless lately, little accidents, little wrong moments.  They make mistakes too, though.  Like sending Maela to bed before me.  Because it means that I’m never asleep when they come in and medicate her.  I’ve watched through snake-slit eyes, barely breathing.  I know their pattern.  Maela falls into bed, tosses and turns, then stills.  Her body usually jerks a few minutes after she settles, then relaxes on a pained exhale until her muscles are lax and unmoving.  It takes longer for her face to smooth out, her jaw and forehead staying tight and tense sometimes for half an hour.  The moment, the instant her jaw releases its tension, her forehead smooths out until she looks like a child, I’ll hear the click of the door.

It’s always the same.  The soft snick of the latch.  The camera blinks out.  A hard-faced nurse props open the door, backing in with a rolling cart laden with grim vials and sharp needles.  She moves toward Maela, not even glancing at my bed, checks her watch, tap-tap-taps her syringe, and depresses the glinting plunger into Maela’s unresisting arm.  Maela’s body tenses immediately, teeth clenching, feet flexing, but she doesn’t wake.  Not really.  Not completely.  She mumbles a lot in the shadow of her sleep, and the nurse sits by her, tiny recorder propped up, taking notes in a little book for hours.  No one else ever comes in, ever.  The nurse loads up her things and leaves, maybe three hours after she arrives, depending on how much Maela is mumbling.  The camera blinks back on.  And half an hour later, Maela wakes up, before the room has transitioned to pale grey, before the noise of a waking asylum cartwheels through our room, echoing off the empty walls.  She’ll press her face into her pillow and sob silently, shoulders shaking, almost hyperventilating, always quiet, desperate not to wake me in her own desperation, because she knows the day is a living hell for me.  The nighttime is my only reprieve – my heaven her hell.  Maela is a good friend.  And it gives me courage.  Because there is nothing about me that is good, but I can borrow Maela’s goodness for a moment, long enough to give her a parting gift.

I don’t think they’ll let me survive what I’m about to do.

The door clicks, and my heart stutters.  I don’t know where the last hour has gone, don’t know how it’s time already.  But it is, and I slither from my bed in the darkness, knowing the timing to the millisecond.  Now is the time she backs into the room with her quiet huff of annoyance, now is the time she nudges the door shut with her wide hip, now is the time the camera clicks off, wanting no evidence of what happens at night in the rooms of the sanatorium.  Which is good for me, because I don’t want evidence either.  Because now is the time I lift the heavy book I took out from the library today, and now is the time I move like a shadow, and now is the time I swing it, binding connecting with temple in a perfect strike.  She collapses like a rag doll.  Now is the time I drag her unresisting body to the chair near Maela’s bed; now is the time I fumble through the tray; now is the time I find a medicine I know well, one meant to sedate; and now is the time I plunge it into the nurse’s fleshy arm.

Maela’s face is soft; Maela’s lids stay shut; Maela’s breathing deepens and deepens and deepens, until real sleep settles on her like a shroud.

So now is the time I wait; now is the time I watch.  And now is not the time for regret.  The devil will come for her due, but tonight, in the darkness, there is space for nothing but this breath and the next.

In the Year 900

Maela

Rain, rain, go away.  Come again another day.  Kailani and I want to flee.  OK.  The rhyme’s not great.  But in the year 900, it totally would have worked.

I watch the rain fall in sheets outside the window.  This is not good.  Rain means mud, and mud means footprints.  If the heavens don’t let up, we’re going to be easily trackable.  And then bagged and tagged.  The idea was to move across dry grass, leaving no trace.  What if there’s rain on the day?  Will they still hold the fireworks out on the front lawn?  We need the fireworks.  They’re going to be our distraction.  All the guests and senior staff will be mingling under the marquee, and surely the nurses and orderlies on duty will want to take a minute or two to look out the south windows and enjoy the display?  

I sigh and trace my finger down the pane, squirming a little guiltily.  I know I’m taking a risk, but I’ve been trying to skip my morning pills lately.  If Iris is the one on duty, she lets me take them myself, and I only pretend to swallow the pills and later spit them into the sink.  I feel bad for deceiving her, but I don't feel quite so nauseous for a couple of hours.  OK, if I have a stroke, I’m going to feel very remorseful, but just at the moment, I feel pretty good.  I finally got some sleep the other night.

Not so Kailani.  When Nurse Nom-nom shook me awake, I wanted to roll over and tell Kailani how amazeballs I was feeling, but she wasn’t in her bed.  She wasn't around at all that day, or the next night, or the next, and no one would tell me where she was.  I began to panic, worried that they’d finally decided to separate us.  And how would we get away then?  But Kailai finally returned this morning, looking like the walking dead, hollow-eyed, hollow-cheeked, lost in a world of nightmare screams.  She’d had a relapse, the nurses said, and was very fragile.  I was to keep an eye on her and let them know what, if anything, she said.  Something must have set her off, they scolded me.  Had I done anything to upset her?  Dr. Beaufort was very disappointed.  And Nom-nom watched me with beady eyes as I swallowed my pills.  But I took a chance and made myself throw them up when she left.  Kailani and I can't both be sick.  Not now.

“Hey, Maela, time for art class.”

I turn, surprised.  Iris sounds awful, well, maybe not awful, but not her normally perky self.  “Hi, Iris.  Is it?  I’ll just put on my shoes.”  I bend down and slip the canvas easily onto my feet.  I don’t know how, but even they seem to have lost weight.  “So,” I ask teasingly, “what’s new with Zeb?”

She shakes her head.  “Chop, chop.”

O-kaay.  Something’s clearly gone wrong there.  I feel a pang.  Poor Iris!  Zeb seemed like such a great guy.  At the very least, a great lay, which has to count for something.

Iris doesn’t speak as I follow her out into the hallway, but as soon as we’re clear of the door, she slows down to keep pace with me.  “I know what you’re planning.”

I stop, feeling as if I’ve been gut-punched.  How?  How?  Kailani and I have been so careful, speaking in snatched whispers and code.  We should have a code word…  I bat the errant thought away.

Iris takes my arm.  “We need to keep walking.  Slowly!  Pretend you’re wobbly on your feet.”  I give a little stumble as she continues.  “You know your room is monitored?”  At my nod, she pleads, “It’s so the doctors can keep an eye on you.  After your head injury, you were at risk of a seizure.  Tantie said.  So, last week I was bringing some files to the nurse on duty, and I glanced at the camera feed when I came in, and there you were taking a swing at Kailani and Kailani was shouting at you, but the nurse turned off the monitor.  When I asked why, she said you two needed to learn how to socialize and solve your disputes without intervention and she was going for a coffee and did I want one.  When she left, I turned the monitor back on.  I was worried about you!  You’re a midget.  But you and Kailani were acting weird.  You were scowling at her and had your hands on your hips, like you were having an argument, but to me you seemed a little… off.  You’re a friend, you know?  Not just a patient.  I turned up the volume and heard you talking about your little cottage.  Damn, that sounded nice!  And then you said, ‘all fruits ripe’, which made me laugh, because you’ve totally picked that up from me, but then you launched yourself at her.  And I heard the door opening, so I turned the monitor off again.”

I remember now.  The camera normally stays off for a good five minutes once we’ve started a fight, long enough for someone to have a bathroom or, I guess, coffee break, but that night I saw the light flicker out of the corner of my eye, so I sprang at Kailani.  I was a little worried, but not too worried, because we hadn’t said anything really incriminating, and how many people know Jamaican patois?  “Did you tell anyone?” I croak.

Iris shakes her head.  “I’m supposed to, but Zeb called.  And I figured, everyone’s allowed to daydream, right?  It was only later, when I asked if you were looking forward to meeting with the British finance minister and you looked surprised that I began to wonder.  And I realized you never talk about anything that’s going to happen after this weekend.”

God damn my expressive face!  “You’re supposed to?”

“Here,” Iris guides me over to a bench and sits me down, pushing my head towards my knees.  “Pretend you’re feeling woozy.”

I don’t need to pretend; I genuinely feel ill.

Iris sighs and rubs my back.  “Tantie asked me to get close to you.  She said you weren’t opening up in your therapy sessions or in Group and she was worried you were repressing painful memories, memories which could be key to getting your life back on track.  I was to get to know you and report back on any details you might share about your time in the coma.  She told me you had suffered delusions, just like my brother, when you first woke up and that you were still at risk of slipping back into a make-believe world if you didn’t deal with them.  I wanted to help.”          

“So what changed?”  My voice is muffled by my light-green trousers, which smell cloyingly of synthetic lavender soap, but Iris hears me.

“You became a friend, a real one.  It didn’t feel right to spy on you.  And then, this morning…”  She trails off.

I turn my head to look at her.

“I saw Kailani being brought out of the ‘peaceful place’.” Iris makes air quotes.  “I wasn’t supposed to be there; I got lost in this rabbit warren.  So I went to my aunt, to let her know what I’d seen, and she wasn’t surprised.  Said although it looked disturbing, like electroshock therapy it was effective and ultimately for the patient’s own good.  Then she started talking about the bigger picture and how the research being done at Mt. Ida was moving science forward by millennia, how she was looking forward to having me join the team when I’d got my degree, how we’d find a cure for schizophrenia and other disorders together, niece and aunt, and learn how to modulate the cerebral pathways.  She sounded like a zealot.”  Iris shakes her head.  “Maybe she’s right; maybe she can find a cure, but this isn’t the type of nursing I signed up to do.  I can’t wait to leave, and if you do too, I want to help you.”

What to do?  I don’t know what to think, whether or not I can trust her.  But she hasn’t betrayed the conversation I had with Kai – someone would have said something, treated me differently – and if she really is willing to help…  I decide I need to go with my gut.

“How far away are we from the nearest town?”

Iris pats me on the back and raises her voice as another orderly approaches us: “There, there, Maela.  Just take a little rest.  The dizziness will pass.”  Then she murmurs, “A damn good hike.  Chepstow is closest, but you’ll want to get to Newport if you can.  You can stay in my flat; they’d never think to look for you there.  And then you and Kailani can disappear.”

“I don’t suppose you can drive us,” I ask, only half-jokingly.

Iris looks pained.  “I don’t have a car.  Tantie picks me up for work every morning and takes me home unless I’m meeting up with Zeb.  He’s got a motorcycle, but it’s in the garage.  Needs a new caliper.  You could try to get a bus, maybe?  I could give you some money for the fare.  And a change of clothes.  They’ll swim on you but should fit Kailani.”

I stand up slowly.  Someone’s going to come over if we sit here much longer.  “Are you working on Funders’ Night?”

Iris nods.

“Can you give Kailani a ten-minute window to get away?  I’ve volunteered to work in the kitchen, but Kailani doesn’t have a reason to leave the room.  Could you watch the monitors, or, I don’t know, maybe pretend to take her to the infirmary?”

Iris nods again and asks, “Do you have a way out?”

“Yes,” I say shortly.  I want to trust her, but the less she knows the better.  If she’s setting us up and everything goes sideways, I want us to at least have a chance. 

I’m feeling hopeful as we approach the art room, wary, cautious, but hopeful for the first time since I woke up.  My only real worry now is Kailani.  She doesn’t look like she can stand unaided; the peaceful place has ravaged her.  But we’re not going to give up, I think.  I’ll carry her if I have to.           

Catching a Live One

Maddox

The hollow-bellied beast roars to life in my chest.  Nothing fills it – no flesh or blood.  It’s insatiable.   

Glancing down at my bruised and bloody knuckles, I shake my hands, sending droplets of scarlet splattering out to the walls, joining the layers of Pollocked artwork already there.  

The man in the chair in front of me is bound and quivering, but wisely silent.  He has already learned that screaming does no good and that no one is coming.  That’s helpful.  Sometimes it takes them much longer to break, but I can tell by the trembling of his skin that the fear has taken hold.  This quaking little creature was a chauffeur, nothing more, but he had her in his car, so he’s on the altar, whether he likes it or not.   

“Now then,” I say, voice deceptively mild.  “Let’s try this again.”

“I can’t tell you.  I promise, I would.  But I don’t know.  Please.  I have a family.”

They always say that.  Always say they have a family.  As though that excuses what they’ve done… what they do.  It never saves them, though.  They chose this life and its consequences, good and bad.  I turn to the table against the wall behind me, the only shining thing in this dull room.  Rolling my shoulders to relieve the tension there, I look over the tools in front of me. 

“You have a family?” I ask conversationally, and he grabs onto it like a lifeline.  

“Yes!  Yes.  Please.  I have two children.  A boy and a girl.  They’re twins – in university this year.  And a wife.  They’ll know if I go missing.  Please.  I’d help if I could.  I don’t know anything.  I’m just a driver.”

Picking up a curved, sharp knife that chefs use to filet fish, I turn back.  “I have a family too.”  My tone is no longer casual, the teeth of a hungry wolf sharp in my words.  “Mine aren’t children or a wife, though.  Mine are found.  I found them through blood and tears and bound them to me.  And you have taken my family’s heart.”  Running my knife down his face, from the corner of his eye to the curve of his mouth, I slowly increase the pressure until a thin line of crimson comes to the surface.  “And I want her back.”

His answering agony is incredibly satisfying, and the beast in my chest purrs.  Careful, careful now.  He can’t speak if he has no mouth.  I crouch in front of him, rocking back on my heels, bringing our eyes level.  He’s a small man, short and rounded.  Soft, really.  More of a pillow than a person.   But he has poison in his eyes, which is unexpected.  Even afraid, there is a snake curling there, and I grin.  That more than anything makes his eyes finally widen.

“You should be crying by now,” I say, tilting my head a little.  “It’s a good act you put on, but you’re not in tears.  Which means you’re lying to me.  If you were just a driver, you’d be pissing yourself by now.”

His jaw clenches, then relaxes.  “I have nothing to tell you.”  His voice is calm, the pleading erased.  He’s just tired and in pain.  “I don’t know where they took her.”

“I don’t need to know where they took her.  I need to know where you took her.”

He inhales sharply through his nose and shakes his head.  “It’s worth more than I have, that answer.  I do have a family.  And people have a way of disappearing when you tell tales out of school.”

I nod.  “I understand.”  Lowering my knife to rest on his kneecap, I sigh.  “I’ve been trained in many things.  Not all are things I wanted to know.  Some of them turned me into a man I didn’t recognize for many years.  And I would have given them up if I could have.”

He’s sitting like a rock in front of me, not moving, barely breathing.  

“They stripped away pieces for God and Country, took the softness, the things that make someone human, and, when I was empty, replaced them with pride and patriotism and made me think I was the better for it.  Gentle things didn’t exist in my world anymore.  There was not room in my life for anything with curves instead of edges.  You understand?”

He nods, though I can see the confusion clear as day on his face.  

“And I hated it.  Granted, it made me a better soldier.  A better leader.  More capable of making difficult decisions.  More capable of withstanding difficult situations.”  Applying slow, steady pressure against the knife in my hand, it begins to sink, unresisting, into the flesh above the driver’s knee.  Sweat breaks out across his forehead, and his breathing increases to erratic, panicked gasps.  “But it took things from me that I thought I would never get back.  To think those are lost forever, that life is a knife’s edge and nothing more… that changes a man.  You forget, over time, that you were ever something other than a weapon for others to wield.  That love, friendship, family, those aren’t things to be ashamed of or embarrassed of.  They don’t make you weak.  They give you hope.  They give you something worth protecting.  They give you a life that is worth living, not just surviving.”  Leaning forward, my knife cuts smoothly, as I knew it would.  “But until I get her back, I’ll be the beast they made me and be grateful for it.  Because if she were here, I couldn’t do what I’m about to do to you.”

He inhales, frantic with pain, pulse thrumming at his neck.  For a moment, his eyes roll back, and I snap him awake with a vial of salts from my pocket.  “Oh no,” I say, almost gently.  “This is a journey into hell we take together.  You are the harp I’m playing ‘til she hears me and follows me out.  And I won’t look behind me once she’s in the light.  Take a breath, because we’re going under together.”

His scream is music.  No one needs kneecaps.  Not where we’re going.

◆◆◆

It is black outside by the time the room is silent, and the only breath left in it is mine.  Closing my eyes briefly, I inhale deeply, the smell of rust and sweat thick in the air.  I give myself the space of a heartbeat, then exhale, and reach out a dripping hand unerringly in the darkness to grab a small burner phone sitting next to my tools.  

I don’t need to see the keys to type the text I’ve been waiting months to send.

S.  We have a lead.  Chepstow.  M.

The screen lights up briefly, a shooting star in the inky room, a wish in the bloodied sky, then fades.

Just as well.  Because when I collapse back against the wall, shaking and tears pouring down my face, it means no one but the devil himself can see me.  And I’ll gladly dance with the devil, sell my worthless soul, if it means getting one step closer to her.

I’ll find you, I whisper to her, wherever she is.  I’m coming.  Wait for me.  I’m coming.  

It is a promise I have written in blood.

Translations

Emlyn

“Putain!” I hiss.  Then, warming to my theme, “Zatk’nis, Coño!”  I pause, taking a moment, but realize I’m still feeling infuriated.  “Das Arschloch!” I roar, slamming my fist into the table. 

“I prefer a good old-fashioned ‘fuck’ myself,” Seef observes, coming into the conservatory.  He looks at the table, strewn with maps and papers, at the laptop, balanced precariously on a stack of files, and at me, rubbing irritably at my nose, and shakes his head.  “No joy?”

“Sacred Arches does not exist.  In this or any other country in Europe, although I did find a holistic wellness retreat by that name offering Pilates, embodied meditation, vegan food, and mandatory periods of silence in Arizona.  It’s legit, by the way.  Gaia does not own or invest in any treatment centers in the British countryside.  Nor does Elizabeth Cole.  All Gaia centers have been checked and cleared, with Cole’s only too willing cooperation.  The Grand Poobahs at MI5 are getting restless; I’ve been neglecting other assignments, they say, and will undoubtedly receive a ticking off at my annual assessment.”  

Seef snorts: “How banal.  So, what’s with all the paper?  Going analogue, are we?”

I run my hand through my hair.  “Old Ordnance Survey maps.  It’s a long shot, I know, but I thought there might be something marked on them.  Maybe an old house or even a hillside, something which hadn’t made it into the digital records.”

“Good thinking.”  Seef nods and looks impressed.  “Want a hand?”

“The more the merrier.  Have you seen Kavi and Jorge yet today?”  I left for the office at 5:00 am.  Couldn’t stand watching the shadows on the wall any longer.

“Jorge’s at the bar, I think; Kavi–”

“Is here.”  The man himself appears in the doorway, looking as fucked as I feel.  He can feed us all the nuts and beans he likes; we’re still shot to hell.  Of course, the coffee I’ve been mainlining probably isn’t helping.  Or the surreptitious Cheesy Wotsits.  Or the beer or three come nightfall.  Speaking of which… “That one for me?”        

Kavi hands me a bottle and sits down heavily in a Rattan chair.  Bloke’s so big he makes it creak.

“Oi,” Seef protests.  “Share the love.”

Kavi waves a bottle at him blindly.  “Careful!  Don’t open it too quickly.”

“Draadtrekker!”  Seef scowls, but there’s no malice in it.

Kavi gives a tired grin without opening his eyes.  “That’s ‘wanker’ to you.”  He sighs.  “What a day.”

“No new leads?” I ask, knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.

“Nothing.  I can’t get the dots to join up.  The symbols, the letters, numbers, they obviously mean something, but what?  Without our own Rosetta Stone, all we can do is speculate.  Kronos aka Gaia were transporting foreign nationals – probably easier to control – but for what?  Some form of modern-day slavery.  But what, exactly?  I can’t quite see Cole putting them to work in nail bars or car washes.  And were they drugged to keep them compliant or was Kronos experimenting on them?  Or both?  And why only women?”  He shakes his head.

“And there’s nothing new on Trouserskid.  The senator was down for a while with a dodgy prawn, apparently, or maybe just the aftereffects of being an all-round scrot, but he’s swanning around London now.  Pre-summit mini-meetings.  Or the Invictus Games.  Or both,” Seef explains.  “Hang on, my ass is buzzing.” 

I stare at him as he pulls a phone out of his back pocket, watching as his face changes from a sort of grim expectation to a barely constrained excitement.  “Emlyn,” Seef demands, but almost in a whisper, “is there anything near Chepstow?”

“Chepstow!  In Wales?  Seef… what?”

“Maddox has a lead,” Seef says tersely.  His eyes are glittering.

“Maddox!”  Kavi sits bolt upright in his chair, all signs of fatigue forgotten.

“As in Walker’s friend Maddox?  As in wanted by Babylon and the FBI Maddox?” I continue.

“The same.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve been in touch with him this whole time?”  I lean forward across the table.  “And you didn’t think it necessary to share that little tidbit with us?”  Something akin to rage flashes through me; I don’t like being kept in the dark, and I sure as hell don’t like my teammates withholding information.

“Two words: ‘plausible deniability’.  Come on, Emlyn, this isn’t a democracy, much as we like to pretend.  You were able to say truthfully, when questioned, that you didn’t know where Maddox might have gone, and there wouldn't have been any blowback if anything did come out.”

“So you’d take the fall, if necessary?  How utterly noble of you.”  My voice drips sarcasm.

“Not even Walker knows,” Seef says impatiently.

That gives me pause; the two men are partners, for Christ’s sake.  “This conversation isn’t over,” I snap at Seef, firing up my computer.  “Chepstow… Chepstow,” I mutter, scrolling through the results.  “Nothing.  No Arches, Sacred or otherwise.  No wellness retreats or treatment centers.  A few salons; a hotel with a spa, but that’s part of a chain.  Are you sure he meant Chepstow?”

“That’s what he wrote.  There isn’t another one, is there?”

I shake my head.

“Look again,” Seef prods.

I roll my eyes, beyond frustrated now.  “Chepstow.  Gateway to Wales and the Wye Valley,” I declaim, like a carnival barker.  “There’s a stone castle – the oldest in Britain, we should visit – but I don’t see Elizabeth stashing the girls there.  Think the guides might notice.  A museum, an eleventh-century church… hmm, no.  Piercefield House, but it’s in ruins, just the main walls left.  Perhaps Gaia’s set up a few tents.”  I know I’m being childish, but to have my hopes raised, even for a moment, and then crushed is too much.

“What about farther afield?  Near Chepstow?  Seef drums his fingers.  “The Wye Valley, did you say?”

I’m already casting the net wider.  “Help me look.”  I shove the maps towards him and Kavi, who’s joined us at the table.

For the next fifteen minutes, there’s near silence, punctuated only by the occasional imprecation.  I’ve pulled up the list of properties owned by or associated with Gaia and Cole and am cross-checking them against the search results, heart in mouth.

“Laanat hai!” Kavi bites out, kneading the back of his neck.  “Nothing’s jumping out.”

“I’ll take your ‘laanat hai’ and raise you one ‘Godverdoem’,” Seef replies bitterly.

“What is up with you three?” Jorge asks from the doorway.  He’s dressed in his bar attire: black boots, faded jeans, grey tee-shirt, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder.  He’s got a heavy five o’clock shadow going, and, I notice with some man-vy, his arms are looking very muscular.  I glance down at my own torso; I need to go to the gym.

“We’re teaching each other to swear in multiple languages,” I answer tiredly.  “But English works best, of course.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jorge says easily, “Maldita sea is more satisfying than ‘damn it’, I think.”      

“I’m a connoisseur of global profanity,” I counter.  I’ve made a study of it.  No one ever wants to say, ‘where is the pen of my aunt?’ but everyone has need to swear when they’re on holiday.  And English is best for cursing.  Lots of gutturals and plosives that you can really get your teeth into.”

“‘Damn’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’,” Seef nods wisely.

“Language, language!” Kavi chides, but his eyebrows are waggling.

“What would Mater say?”  Eadric’s voice is clear as a bell beside me.  Remembering my brother, for the first time since his death I smile.  “It’s funny, though,” I muse, “some things just don’t translate.  Take putain, for instance; it literally means…”  I trail off as a sudden thought strikes me.

“Puto?  But sí.  This is a prostitute.”  Jorge looks at me curiously.

“Translate,” I breathe, mind racing.  Could the answer really be so simple?  I shake my head.  “I’m an idiot.”

“Not going to debate you there,” Seef concurs, and I scowl at him.  “Language!”

Across from me, his eyes narrow, and I can see the realization dawn as Eadric sighs in my ear, “Took you long enough.  Plonker.”

“You first,” I murmur.  Kavi’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, and I force myself back to the conversation.  “Elizabeth is taking inspiration from Greek mythology: Gaia, Kronos, Rhea, Aphrodite – these are all Greek gods and goddesses.  Why would her little hideaway be in English?

Now I can see both Kavi and Jorge have caught on.  “So what is the Greek for ‘Sacred Arches’? Kavi asks.  

I stand up.  “Back in a tick.”  I race to the library and grab the well-thumbed copy of Liddell, Scott, Jones’s Ancient Greek Lexicon; it was my father’s, and he gave it to me when I went off to school.  Coming back into the conservatory, I open the book and flip the pages.  “It’s ancient Greek, but it should be close enough to modern, just in case.”  Stopping on ‘arch’, I read aloud “kamaroma”. 

Seef makes a face.  “I’ll Google it.”

I continue searching.  “And ‘sacred’ is ‘ayos’ or ‘hieros’.”

“The only hit coming up on ‘kamaroma’ is a species of turtle.”

“Modern Greek?” Jorge suggests.

“Kamaroma.  Kamaro.  Kamara.”  I turn the words over, searching for some spark of recognition.  “Kamaroma ayos.  Kamaroma hieros.  Kamara ayos.  Kamarayos”

“Kamaraes,” Jorge repeats, frowning, and something stirs in my memory.  “Say that again!”

“Kamares,” he says again, looking at me as if I’ve suddenly gone mad.

I grab the laptop from Seef and type furiously.  “Hah!  I knew it!  This came up on a test way back when.  Kamares ware, a type of multihued pottery produced in Crete during the second millennium BCE.”

Seef cocks his head.  “Much as I admire your fancy education, what–”

“And,” I interrupt, almost growling at him, “the village of Kamares is the site of a Minoan sacred cave.”

Seef’s mouth drops open.  “Holy fuck!”

“So,” Kavi says excitedly, “the girls are in Crete!  In this village.”

“Looks like it,” I reply, eyes shining.

“Well, what are we waiting for?  Time to pack!  What’s the nearest airport?” Jorge demands.

“Looks like Heraklion is the closest.  We can then rent a car and drive to Kamares.  The village and the cave are on the south slopes of Mt. Ida.”

“Come again?” Seef interjects.

“Heraklion is the closest airport; Kamares is on Mt. Ida.  Clever of Cole, and entirely in keeping with her theme.  I’m kicking myself for not picking up on it sooner.  Mt. Ida is sacred to the mother goddess, Cybele or Rhea, who hid Zeus there when he was an infant.”

“Mt. Ida.”  Seef starts searching through maps and papers.  “Got it!  An old country house near Chepstow, north of Piercefield Park, by the River Wye, surrounded by woods and parkland.  Quite secluded.”

I’m Googling before Seef has finished speaking.  There’s not much.  “Seems to be in private hands, some sort of trust, but it’s not listed as a treatment center or even a spa.  And,” I add, scrolling through the list, “it’s not owned by Gaia or Cole.  How sure is Maddox about this information?”

Seef looks at me bluntly.  “Very.”

That one word, and the way it’s delivered, gets me thinking.  Maddox struck me as a highly capable and intense man, utterly dedicated to his work and to his team.  Spare in his words and movements, and I wonder how deep the still waters run.  Best not to speculate.

“If this is the place,” I muse, “Cole must be keeping it well under wraps, advertising through word of mouth only.”  I think back to the girl and her pimp and glance at Jorge’s hand; it’s healed, on the surface, leaving a neat red scar.  But I’ve noticed he favors the other hand now, and he hasn’t picked up a guitar since.  “The girl Jorge rescued – she said one of the Gaia centers offered her a special course of treatment, at a big house in the countryside, but when I asked, the staff denied it.  Outpatient courses only.  And nothing came of our follow-up research.  Cole doesn’t own a country property – officially.  And nor does Gaia.  There’s still a chance that the girls are in Greece – I’ll contact someone at the National Intelligence Service – but Maddox said ‘Chepstow’.  And now we know there’s a Mt. Ida there too.”

Kavi’s looking at his phone.  “It’s an easy two-and-a-half-hour drive: London to Bristol on the M4, then the M48 to Chepstow, crossing the Severn Bridge.”

I stand up.  “Let’s pack.”

“Why bother?  Let’s go now.  We could have them out of there before morning and back home by lunch,” Jorge urges.

“We can’t just go storming in.  We’ll need a plan,” Seef cautions.

Jorge waves a hand dismissively.  “We can figure it out on the way.  And they won’t be expecting us.”

“They undoubtedly have security,” Seef counters.  “We’ll need to surveil the place before trying to break them out.”

Jorge snarls: “Those bastards have had Maela for over four months!”

“And if I know her, our girl is giving them hell.  She’ll be using that daftness to her advantage and is probably driving them mad.”

I’m startled into a laugh.  “Right, everyone.  Change of clothes and a toothbrush.”

“And your guns,” Kavi murmurs.  “You and Seef both.”

For the second time in as many moments, I start.  “How did you–”

Kavi chuckles.  “You need to learn not to check for a hidden holster when you think of Cole.”

“UK Intelligence Officers don’t carry firearms in the line of duty.  We’re trained, of course, but it’s frowned on.  And Emlyn and I would never disobey orders,” Seef says piously.

“Uh huh,” Kavi snorts.  “Make sure to pack some extra bullets with your undies.”

I hold up a hand.  “OK, everyone.  Let’s reconvene in fifteen.  We’ll grab the Express from Paddington station and rent a car at Heathrow.  We can then hop on the M4 in five minutes.”  As we head for the door, I stop, remembering.  “Seef?  Can you get word to the Yanks?  I know they’ve been going stir crazy having to rely on us.  They’ll want to be in on this, although we’ll probably beat them there.  It’s over three hours from Snowdonia to Chepstow.”

Seef nods.  “I’ve got a stash of burner phones.  But maybe we should wait until we’re sure.  No sense in all of us going and running the risk of alerting Babylon if we’re wrong.”

Kavi narrows his eyes.  “Wait a minute.  How do we know we won’t be followed?  We assume Babylon’s been monitoring us.  I don’t want to deliver Maela from Kronos into Babylon’s hand.”

“Blast!  We could go to a nightclub?  Lose any trail in the crowd and slip out a side door?” I offer.

“And then be picked up on security cameras at the station and traced to Heathrow; with ANPR, they could trace our car and follow it to the family love nest.”  Seef shakes his head.  

“But not immediately,” I riposte. 

Jorge, who’s been deep in thought, now stirs.  “Finn has a car.”

I stare.  “In London?”  And on a pub landlord’s salary?

“Sí.  It is, how do you say?  A sausage?”

“An old banger?”

“Sí.  His mate lets him keep it at the parking lot next door.  In return for free beer.”

“And you think he’ll let us borrow it?”

Jorge nods.  “Finn is a good man.  His flat is above the pub.  I can go there now, pretend I’ve forgotten something.”

“Alright,” I think swiftly.  “Kavi, Seef, and I will very publicly head out for a drink.  There’s a cocktail club near the station, down the street from a Tesco’s superstore – you know the one?  You can wait for us in the parking lot.  The club is always packed, so we should be able to lose any stalkers there.  I’ll flash my badge if I have to.  We slip out and join you at the entrance to the store.  Seef and Kavi can walk down the main road; I’ll go down a side street and through the lot, just in case.  Give us half an hour to get to the club, then ten minutes there.”

“It’s a plan,” Seef agrees.

I follow the others out the door, going down to the basement annex where I start tossing clothes and, yes, a gun into my bag.  Brace yourself, Elizabeth, I think exultantly, we’re coming for you.

28 April

Reality is merely an illusion,

Albeit a very persistent one.

⁓ Albert Einstein

Wake Up

Kailani

Here are the things I know.  The sun rises; the sun sets.  I have two feet, two hands, two eyes, one silent mouth.  The walls are white; the room is cold; the closets empty; my heartbeat hollow in my chest.  There is no yesterday to look back on, nor tomorrow to look forward to.  I exist only in the never-ending now.  Life is as simple as this – a breath in, a breath out.  These are the things I know.

I can’t see their faces anymore, even in the darkness.  Dreams have been stripped from me like flayed skin, leaving behind only quivering muscle and bone.  I am quiet; I am good; I am a pliant doll.  On days when desperation claws at me like an eagle’s talons, they give me purple, a burning taste of happiness, and I can drift into smiles and stolen joy.  Every other moment of my life is a wasted effort.  

The weight of a new day settles on me as soon as I open my eyes, breathing already a Sisyphean task.  How soon can I go back to sleep?  The voice in my head faded away to nothingness the last time I was in the hole, and now my thoughts echo in my empty skull.  It is me, alone.  Everything feels heavy today, my eyelids sandpaper, and it seems easier to just… not.  

“Kailani…”  Her voice is quiet, barely a whisper of sound, feather light and misty thin.  

Not today, Maela.  I don’t bother opening my eyes to answer her, but she is insistent.

“Kailani.”  She tries again, and the determination in her words finally forces my head to turn toward her, like a puppet on a string.  The effort it takes to move is frightening.

“It’s time.”  It’s time?  Staring at her blankly, I try to remember our schedule for the day.  Time for what?  Her eyes flick nervously around the room, checking the empty corners, the barren shelves, the flashing clock, the god’s-eye camera, then come back to settle on me.  “It’s time to get up.  It’s time to get up and go.”

Get up and go where?  I want to ask, but I’m too tired.  The only place that exists is this room.  And then, when we leave it, only the hallway, then only the Group room… each place is only real for the length of time I am inside it, and then ceases.  Where would I go?

“Hey!”  Her voice is sharp now, brows drawn together, and something stirs to life inside me.  “Pay attention.”  Trying hard to keep frustration from her words, she points to the clock.  “Are you listening to me?  It’s.  Time.  To.  Go.”

I want to hear what she’s saying, want to understand, but I’m watching her through a fisheye lens, everything distorted at the edges.  I don’t have a chance to ask her what she means, though, because one of the faceless nurses bustles in, cart wheels squeaking.  

“Alright, dearies?” she asks, voice cheerful.  

Maela smiles at her, an odd twist of lips and flash of teeth that is somehow sarcastic.  “Never better.”  Her voice is flat – respectful, but flat – and against my better instincts my curiosity is perked.

“Seems like you’re having a bit of a tiff?”  The nurse titters, a stupid sound.  “Not a good way to start Funders’ Day.  Best behavior and all that.  Just do what you're meant to, and everything will go according to plan.”

Maela nods in surprisingly fervent agreement.  “Absolutely, Nurse.  I absolutely agree.  I was just trying to get Kailani here up and out of bed.”  Turning back to me, she leans over and locks her wolf-blue eyes on my own.  “It’s time now.”  The strain in her voice is becoming difficult for her to mask, and it trembles slightly as I let my lids drift shut again.

“Wake up, Kailani,” she whispers fiercely.  “Wake up.”

And suddenly, the gaping emptiness in my mind lights as though electrified, a field of stars bursting into painful vibrancy.

Wake up, Kailani, wake up.

“It’s time to go.”

Prize Heifer

Maela

“And that concludes the tour.”  I dip my head as the group claps politely.  “Please help yourself to refreshments in the marquee.”  I sigh as the besuited men and sheath-dressed women disperse.  We visited the drawing room, the art room, the therapy room, the refectory, and a “typical patient’s room”, which almost choked me to say, as the mattress on the bed looked deep, with a comfortable duvet and fluffy pillow, and the walls were painted a cheerful primrose yellow.  All the while, I could sense them staring at me, wondering, no doubt, when I was going to cross my eyes and start licking the walls or shuffle into a corner, expose myself, and wail tunelessly.  I’d been introduced as “a Mt. Ida success story, who, thanks to your generosity, has made a sterling recovery and can look forward to a normal life”.  The nurse had waxed lyrical about my time in the coma.  “But now,” she’d said, “Maela is a valued senior patient, who helps out by working in the library and the kitchens.  Although we’re pleased to say that she doesn’t help herself to pastries when no one’s looking!”  Cue laughter all round.  “Yes,” the nurse had said in answer to a question, “diets are carefully monitored to ensure they don’t interact with the medications, and patients are encouraged to get exercise and plenty of fresh air.”  I snort, looking down at my arm.  I’ve always been pale – “milk-bottle white”, Iris likes to tease – but in the last few days I swear I’ve become translucent.  And what figure I had is almost gone.  If I never see another plate of broccoli again, it’ll be too soon.

“Something funny, Maela?”

Elizabeth’s voice makes me jump.  She’s back in “civilian clothing” again: navy pantsuit, grey, silk scarf; diamond studs and heels. 

“No, Matron.  Just a tickle in my throat.  I think it must be allergies.”

“Hmm, why don’t you get yourself a cup of tea?  All this talking must be making you hoarse.  I’ve been hearing good things about you, though.  Your second group said that your tour was very interesting.”

“Oh.  Thanks.”  I don’t really know what to say.  Yes, the house is “a fine example of Georgian architecture in the style of William Chambers”, but most of the original furnishings are gone.  And I don’t see how a Formica table loaded with art supplies can really hold the attention, but I guess the funders like to see how their money is being spent.  Doff cap, bow bow, scrape scrape.  Whatever.  As far as I’m concerned, finding out more about the house and visiting its rooms, “to make sure I’m ready for the tours”, has proved a golden opportunity.  I’ve got a solid plan.  I think.

“I could do with a cup of tea, myself.  I’ll come with you.”  Elizabeth links her arm in mine and starts walking me towards the tent.  “So, Maela.  Are you enjoying yourself?”  

I’m too freaked out by her proximity to do more than give an “mmm-hmm”, but she doesn’t seem to notice.  “I have to say I’m proud of you, Maela.  This day is so important for us, a chance to show our guests what we do with their contributions, and you’re helping to make it a success, you and all the other hard-working patients.”  She gestures towards Martin, my fellow brain-damagee, who appears to be playing the role of greeter-cum-pet.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the person he’s saying hello to leans over and pats him on the head.  

“Yes, you’ve been very helpful, and I’m grateful to you.”  The words sit oddly on her tongue, but I just murmur and bob my head.  “I know how unsettling everything has been, how difficult accepting the extent of your injuries was, but you’ve faced up to them and, may I say, with bravery and determination.  I think you can see now that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel and that we really have had your best interests at heart.”  She pats my hand.  “And your parents may have rejected you, but you have another family here at Mt. Ida.  You can stay with us as long as you like.”

I’m dying to pull away, but I summon up a wan smile.  “Thank you, Matron.”

Elizabeth stops and looks at me earnestly.  “No, thank you, Maela.  I shouldn’t say anything as the results still need to be treble-checked, but the drug trial you’re taking part in is looking very promising.   I think we may have made a real break-through in treating people like Kailani.  And that’s in no small part to patients like you, who are willing to work with us, to support the Mt. Ida vision of a world where a different mental map isn’t a stigma.  I’m cautiously optimistic that next year she’ll be able to join you in giving the tours.”

All of a sudden, I feel troubled.  Should I really be taking Kailani away?  What if she has a complete breakdown without her medication?  But… no.  No!  Kailani can’t stay here, and neither can I.  We’re slowly fading away.  One day, I’ll go to wake her, just like this morning, and she won’t respond.

“Ah, Governor Anderson!  How lovely to see you again.  You’re looking well, I must say.”  My head snaps up to see Elizabeth air-kissing a tall, blond, perma-tanned man.  Beside him is an equally blonde woman in a cashmere twinset and pearls.  We’ve reached the table with the tea pots and china cups – no urns and mugs here – and trays of petits fours.  My mouth drools.

“Governor,” Elizabeth gestures to me.  “Have you met Maela?  Maela’s one of our senior patients.  Not six months ago, she was in a coma.” 

Oh, here we go again, I think, giving an internal eyeroll.  I listen blank-faced as Elizabeth shows me off like a prize cow.  The governor’s wife, I notice, looks bored.  I bet she has 2.4 children and likes to lunch on a Radicchio leaf and a prawn. 

“I’m pleased to meet you, Maela.”  The governor flashes me a practiced smile and offers his hand.  His grip is bruising, or maybe I’m just feeling faint.

“Maela, dear,” Elizabeth coos, “perhaps you’d like to take a tray and circulate?  The governor and I have some business to attend to.”

So much for the tea.  The Ken-doll laughs as I pick up a tray, wagging his finger at Elizabeth: “The check is in the mail.”  His wife visibly brightens as I leave, as if she thought mental illness might be catching and she’s now in the clear.

I wander among the great and the good, proffering the tray like an automaton. They’re all much of a muchness: older, mostly white, well-groomed men, with a smattering of women here and there, sporting the casual Rolex or pair of Jimmy Choos.  From the snippets of conversation I overhear, I can tell that some of them work for pharmaceutical companies; well, that would make sense.  Way to meet your market and all, while demonstrating corporate social responsibility, a feel-good story to put on your website.  I’m surprised there aren’t any photographers here.  Others in the group, I think, are politicians like the governor; I can see Monsieur d’Aumale in the distance.  And your obligatory hedge fund manager or three.  And over there’s Dr. Beaufort.  She’s looking glamorous too, in a peacock-blue dress and heels, talking to a heavy-browed, bearded man.  Despite all the hair, he puts me in mind of a cobra, and, for a moment, I’m worried that she might call me over, but she just smiles at me and continues her conversation.  I set the tray down on a small table, looking around.  I think I can risk it.

The chocolate petit-four looks glorious, and my eyes grow wide as I inhale its rich, wine-dark scent.  There are notes of violet and tonka bean, and I groan as the sugary goodness hits my tongue.

“Maela!”

I jump, choking on cake.  Gods damn it, that woman is a specter!  I turn around reluctantly to see Dye-job scowling at me, arms crossed, shaking her head.  “It’s time for your shift in the library, little piggy.  And then you can go back to your room.  I don’t think you’ll be needing dinner.”

I’m longing to tell her that her mouth is pursed like a cat’s anus and if she sneezes her face will stay that way, but I cast my eyes down.  The last thing I need is to be thrown into the hole.  I let my shoulders slump.  “Yes, ma’am.  Sorry, ma’am,” I whimper and follow her back to the hall. 

◆◆◆

An incy-wincy Maela crept down the empty hall.  I sing soundlessly, trying to keep my courage up.  This is it.  Alia iacta est.  I volunteered to be on clean-up in the kitchens, saying, quite rightly, that my library duties would be light today, and was the last to leave, just before Cook.  She was in a hurry, closing up behind me, and took no notice as I walked away; the fireworks will be starting soon.  She didn’t see me slip into a storage closet and wait until she’d passed, then dart out and back the way I came, heading for the east wing.   

“Tis now the very witching time of night / When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out.”  The words float through my head, making me shudder, but I urge my feet forwards.  I’m halfway there, just a little further, and I’ll be at the staircase.  Then down to the gardens, which should be deserted.  Then wait for Kai under the elm.

My heart stutters at a noise up ahead, and I freeze like a startled deer, but no one appears.  I sigh in relief; the building’s old stones and beams must be shifting in the damp.  At least the rain has stopped, even if the wind is up.  Everything will be OK.  The plan will work.  Kai will be leaving the room right about now.  Iris is on duty.  All Kai has to do is slip out and head for the hall.  If anyone asks, she’s going to the kitchen for a cup of chamomile tea.  But no one will be lurking; everyone will be going to watch the fireworks.  Then Kai just has to follow me down the stairway.   

“The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.”  I stop before the door and turn the handle.

Following Directions

Kailani

The fireworks start in ten minutes, which means it’s time to gogogo and I fight desperately to remember Maela’s instructions.  She was so careful, checking and double checking that I memorized them, but that was before Maela had a full night of sleep and Kailani realized that she would never sleep without nightmares again.  What do I do?  My breath is shallow, stuttering, but I force myself to inhale on a long, shaking expansion of lungs, before exhaling in a burst of sound.  Follow the steps.  Just follow the steps.  I wish the voice in my mind would come back and help guide me, just a little.  Hello? I ask hopefully.  Hello, hello, hello?  It bounces around my head in an empty echo, like calling out into the mountains at night.  Hello hello hello?

The clock must be in fast forward, because five minutes have been swallowed and disappeared in the space it took me to recall step one:  Leave the room by 9:00 or you will miss the window.  I should already be in the hallway – the fireworks only last fifteen minutes, and we’ll be hard-pressed to have crossed the lawn in that time.  I need to get up.  But nothing works right on my body anymore.  Nothing works right in my brain anymore, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling that I’m doing the wrong thing, that I actually belong here, that I’ve tricked something essential in my mind into believing that I’m right when I’m oh-so-very wrong.  Maybe Maela should go without me.  I’ll only drag her down.  

The certainty of that statement settles into my stomach, a lead bullet tunneling down into the low pit of anxiety.  She should go without you.  You’ll get her killed, or worse.  Expelled.  Hahaha.  Three more minutes have ticked by, and I haven’t even stood up yet.   That’s okay.  It’s okay.  Maela will be better off without me.  She’s quick, and she’ll be across the lawn and through the water before the first round of exploding color lights the sky.  I wonder if any of this is even real.  If maybe I’m still asleep, if all of this sickening hope is just a remnant of a distant past, where I hadn’t learned how the world is a tightrope of pain and disappointment.  

Oh my God, Kai!  One minute.  Kai!  ONE MINUTE.  And she won’t ever leave without you!  What are you doing?  The voice rushes back in a jagged cut of panic, slicing skin and glistening fat down to bone, and the pain in my temples is a shot of adrenaline shooting me to my feet.  You need to run!  Maela would never go if she thought I was coming, and I promised her.  She would wait and wait and miss her chance.  

Run, Kai, run!  The voice is shatteringly loud, a heartbeat in my skull, thudding in a whooshing pulse of sound as the doorway, then hallway, then staircase flare and fade, flare and fade in my vision as I race through the corridors.  “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date!  No time to say hello, goodbye, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!”  

Down to the second landing.  Straight ahead through the hallway over the kitchens.  Past the library, don’t look at that staircase, please, oh please – DON’T LOOK! the voice snaps out as my feet slow unintentionally, skin crawling, blood freezing.  I nod and continue, forcing my muscles to move.  What next?  What next?  Look for the non-descript door, halfway down – yes!  There it is.  Servants' quarters.  East wing.  Find the back staircase.  It’s so dark, steps into hell, and I’m shaking, vibrating with fear.

Hurry, hurry, hurry!  The voice forces me forward, hands outstretched to either side of me, fingers tracing the walls to keep me steady in the pitch black.  

The stairs are old, uneven, and I’m moving silently and carefully, doing my best not to fall, so when the first pop of sound comes from outside, it startles me so badly I shriek unintentionally before clapping a hand over my mouth.  My eyes flare, wide and wild in fear, but I am safe, as somewhere in the near distance my scream is eaten and echoed by a similar cacophony of noise, only… higher?  And more excited?  Almost cheering…  No, Kai!  No!  Keep going!  Ignore it and keep going!  The voice is panicked.  

Oh my God.  Children.  Children!  They have children here!  Flipping around, I fumble through the darkness, trying to find my way back up, but the voice stops me.

There… there are no children, Kai.  It’s – it’s your imagination.  The fear.  The excitement.

It sounds almost hesitant.  As though… as though, for the first time, it’s lying to me.  Can it lie to me?  

You need to go, Kai.

It’s reluctant, but firm.  The shouting laughter of children is still there, clear even in the chest-thudding explosions from outside, and I press my face against the wall, try to push my body through the cold stone.  “Are you sure?” I ask it in a whisper, and there is silence.  “Please, are you sure?  There are children!”

Go, Kailani!  Or Maela will be caught, and it will all be your fault!  

Turning, I fight against myself, as though brain and body are controlled by two separate people, one wanting to ascend the stairs, one wanting to go down.  And here’s a little trick they teach you in any fighting class – it’s much, much easier to make someone fall down stairs than it is to make them climb up.  So I’m almost prepared when, as I turn, I miss the step and tumble, tumble, tumble down backbreaking steps to land in a scraped and sore heap at the bottom.  

I can’t hear the children anymore.

Picking up my shaking body, like pulling the tangled strings of a broken puppet, I struggle forward.  Everything's a blur of suffocating darkness, hollow booms, and thick, dry air.  It presses in against me, surprisingly cool, but heavy.  I’m underground I realize in a throat-closing shiver of stark terror.  Oh gods, I’m underground!  I can’t DO this! 

But somehow, somehow my feet keep moving in stumbling, dragging motions, a marionette, robotic and jerking.  Maela said go to the end, turn to the left, go out the door.  I repeat it, over and over and over, until her voice is the only thing I can hear.  Go to the end.  Turn to the left.  Go out the door.  Go to the end, turn to the left.  Go out the door.  Go to the end.  Turn to the left– 

But… there’s a glow to the right… to the right, to the right is a dimly lit room, with glass panes, with a just opened door – one that clearly didn’t click shut when someone left in a careless hurry.

And on the walls, in row after row of glistening, shimmering color, are tiny bottles, stored in a prismatic rainbow in euphoric precision.

Reds in descending ombre to pale pinks then sunset oranges.  Vibrant fire yellows fade down to soft buttercups.  Vials of green like grass I only see in my memory, blues of the ocean and peacock-feather teal.  And there, there at the very bottom, two straight and starlit lines of

Purple.

No, Kai, no…

But the voice is a whisper in the hollow roaring in my mind, the clawing beast in my belly, the serrated knives in my veins.

Kai… run… run…

It doesn’t take any effort to silence it now.

No effort at all.

Go to the end.

Turn to the right.

Go in the door.

Taste the Rainbow

Kailani

“What are you doing in here, Ladybug?”

The deep voice is unexpected and jerks me out of my reverie, a panicked moan of sound I can’t swallow in time escaping through closed lips.  His smile is a curious gleam in the darkness, catching the edges of the faint fluorescent light.  “I’m fairly sure you have someplace you’re supposed to be that isn’t here.”

I can’t speak.  Everything is lost, words and noise and feeling all drowning beneath a tsunami wave of terror.

“Now what in the world would someone like you be doing in a place like this?”  He hasn’t moved, and I haven’t moved; we are locked pieces on a chessboard.  My heart is a tremor, an earthquake, skipping and stuttering in my chest.  Zale leans forward, brushing my skin, reaching past me, so close to me his cheek glides over mine as he stretches his arm to the top shelf and grabs a nondescript little bag from the back corner.

“It seems like you and I had similar plans, Bug, which surprises me, I have to say.  And I’m not sure I like being surprised.”

I am sure I don’t like the way he says “Bug”, the way his skin is still pressed against mine, the way his words are whispered against the curve of my ear, sending sickening shivers down my neck. 

“Had we but world enough, and time…” he breathes almost noiselessly, and I can feel the rounding of his cheek that means he’s smiling.  But there are still stampeding horses in my stomach, and I don’t know why, because Zale has always been kind, has been a friend, a refuge.  Zale would understand.  Wouldn’t he?  Would he?  

He’s bringing the bag forward now, trailing it down my arm, down to my hand, pressing it into my unresisting fingers.

“We’ll make a deal.  I will let you go now, but keep this safe for me.  Because I’m coming for it, Kailani.  And if you don’t have it when I find you – and I will find you – I will be very… let’s say… disappointed.”  His teeth flash again as he pulls away from me, but this time they are shark-like, predatory.  “Whatever else you put in there is fine.  I won’t even look.  And if you get caught, well.  No one will believe you over me, I think you already know.”  His head jerks up in a sudden, startled motion, as though he can hear something I can’t over the pulsing in my eardrums, and he checks his watch, shaking his head.  “I would hurry along now if I were you, Bug.  I won’t help you, but I won’t hinder you either.  I like spokes in the wheels.  Most of life is boring; this should shake things up a little.”

Without breaking eye contact, he leans forward again, purposefully grazing down the front of my shaking body as he bends down, low to the floor, and grabs a handful of glittery purple vials.  “You were probably wanting some of this, hmmm?”  He puts it in the bag, and his smile softens as he inhales deeply, like he can taste my fear in the air.  “When I find you again, you can have this every day.  Every day.  I promise you.  So don’t worry.”  Checking his watch again, he clicks his tongue.  “You don’t have long now, KaiKai.  Maybe two more minutes in here.  Take what you need and then Get.  Out.”  

He pauses, then presses a gentle kiss onto my cheek, before inhaling again, and dropping his forehead to my collarbone.  Like a bee sting, there is a sudden, sharp pain of his teeth breaking skin, closing around the hollows on either side of the bone in an unexpected bite, and I rear back in fear.  I’m not quick enough; his teeth are locked on my skin and scrape as I pull away.  

Laughing, he licks my stinging neck before pulling back and grinning at me, disconcertingly unconcerned with the blood on his lips.  “You’re delightful,” he laughs, low and clearly amused.  “I like a little chaos in my day.  You should probably fly now, Ladybug.”  

Turning, he moves to the door, calling over his shoulder, “Make sure you close this behind you, hmm?  And Kailani,” a warning note enters his voice, a dark crackle of violent sound, “I’m a greedy man.  You would do well to remember that.”

As silently as he arrived, he disappears, leaving me shaking behind him, pressed against the rows of sparkling color.  I can’t breathe for a second, two seconds, but finally force myself to stand up.

Maela, Kai.  Get to Maela.  Now!

Nodding, I grab a cloth off the counter and wrap the handful of purple vials in it.  There aren’t enough, but the little bag is small, and I don’t want to risk breaking a single one.  I waste valuable seconds staring at the wall, running through my options – I don’t look at any other colors; they all make me sick.  But there, at the far corner, on a little separate shelf, are careful stacks of plain white pills, kept in little, clear bottles, unlabeled.  I know them like I know my own face.  

I need those.  I need them.  Because if I’m right, and I am dangerous, then Maela can give them to me and numb me out for long enough that she can escape.  It’s a safeguard for her, will help protect her from me.  I know in my bones that I shouldn’t be leaving, that I belong in this place, just like I know Maela doesn’t.  That she’s too good for it here, that she came here through a weird twist of fate; she was never meant to be here, not really.    

But I can’t stay.  I just can’t, no matter the cost.  Because they’re tearing me apart here, shredding me into pulp.  You can know you belong somewhere but still desperately want to be something or someone different.  This is a chance to be someone other than who I am.

But… someday, when we’re in our little cottage by a river, me with my chickens and her with her cats, and out of nowhere I snap and turn on her like a rabid dog, she will have a failsafe.  She can tempt me with a mocha and lace it with these poisoned clouds.  And at least, as I drift into the sky, and she’s calling someone to come get me and bring me back, I will know that I did what I could, that even in my worst self, I still had a shadow of someone better.

Shoving the pills into the bag, I wrap it around my waist, tucking it under my thin pants, and knot the straps over and over until there is no cord left.  Then, as silently as Zale did before me, I exit the storeroom, pulling the door shut with a soft snick behind me.  A whoosh of sound, like air turning back on, fills the room as soon as the door locks, a whirring of fans and electricity.

Taking a moment, I wipe down the door handle – the only surface in the room I touched, and then turn my back on the rows of gleaming emotions.

I’m coming Maela.  I’m coming now.

Turning left.

Out the door.

Into freedom.

The Best Laid Plans

Maela

Where is she?  Where is she?  Kai should have been here a good ten minutes ago.  I bite my nail nervously.  The fireworks are almost done, and our window of escape is rapidly closing.  “Come on, Kai,” I mutter.  My spine is so taut it could snap in a puff of wind, and a sick feeling is building in my stomach.  Another explosion lights up the sky, another minute lost.  Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots, and a small creature scurries through the grass close by.  I breathe in the damp night air, trying and failing to stay calm.  She must have been caught; that’s the only explanation, and now they’re dragging her off to the quiet place, and soon they’ll come for me.

“Steady on, Maela,” I whisper.  I’ll give it another few minutes, and then I’m going back to look for her.  Maybe she just got lost.

I glance across the deserted gardens.  All the patients, bar two, are tucked up safely in bed, and the guests and staff are enjoying the show.  Across the gardens, then the deer park; we can run between the copses.  Then through the woods and over the river and into the woods again.  Then follow the river to Chepstow.  There’s a hamlet closer by, but that’s the first place they’ll look when they discover we’re missing.  And from Chepstow we can get a bus to Newport and Iris’s flat.  And then?  Ireland?  France?  We don't have passports.  London?

I hear a click and whirl around.  For one terrible moment, I think the tall figure standing by the door is Elizabeth, and then I realize, in a rush of bone-melting relief, it’s Kai.  I’m still not used to seeing her without her braids.  She moves towards me slowly, carrying a bag, and I see that she’s wearing the tee-shirt Iris put under the blanket.  We figured we could just about get away with the institutional green trousers, but the duplicate tops and soft shoes would mark us as runaways.  Iris left a brown top and a black top, so we wouldn’t be matchy matchy, and mine swims on me.  I look like an urchin, but at least it covers up a lot of the green. 

“Kailani,” I sigh.  “You made it!  What took you so long?  Did you run into trouble?”

Her face is strained and bloodless.  “Zale,” she whispers, and I see she can’t suppress a shudder.

“Zale your friend from Group Zale?  Fuck!  Do you think he’ll give us away?”

She shrugs helplessly.  “We’d better hurry.”

“Right,” I nod.  “Come on.”

We scramble through the grass, past the flower borders, the benches.  All the while I’m expecting to hear a shout from behind, the rumble of a 4x4 maybe, to be run to ground like a hare, but only our ragged breathing disturbs the quiet.  Now we’re at the fence to the deer park, and we clamber over the wooden rails, stumbling into the meadow.  How long until they notice we’re gone?  How long do we have until they send out a search party?  I can sense them, like a pack of rabid dogs in the distance, sniffing and circling, picking up our scent and – I shake my head sharply.  “Don’t be ridiculous, Maela.  Iris is covering for you.”  I stop suddenly, bending over.  Iris!

Perhaps alerted by the sudden hush, Kailani looks around to see me crouched in the long grass.  It’s wet from the recent rains, and our thin shoes and trousers are already soaked through.  “What is it?  Maela?  Do you have a cramp?” she asks urgently.

“Kai!” I wail thinly.  “What will happen to Iris?  They’ll know she helped us.  At the very least, she’ll get in trouble for not keeping an eye on you!”

Kailani grabs my arm, pulling me forward.  “Come on, Maela.  We’ve got to keep going.  We’re almost to the woods.  Iris will be OK.  She’s Dr. Beaufort’s niece, right?”

I nod as I struggle to keep up; Kailani’s legs are insanely long.

“Iris is clever.  She’ll say that I was throwing up in the bathroom and she went to get a coffee or something.  And besides, I bunched up the bedclothes to make it look like I’m sleeping under the covers.”

I stop again, this time with a surprised giggle.  “You didn’t?  That’s the most clichéd diversion ever!”

Kailani smiles.  “Best I could come up with.  Race you to the river?”

Together, we run into the trees.

At the Wye’s Edge

Kailani

Maela’s nervous, staring at rapids in front of us, the recent rains swelling it from lazy stream to rushing river.  “This… this is supposed to be shallow.  Easy to cross.”  Her eyes are wide, but she’s not panicking, not yet.  A large branch tumbles and churns in the water, moving quickly downstream, before lodging against the far shore where the river curves into a bend.  She inhales sharply through her nose, reviewing the facts under her breath.  “It’s long, but shallow.  Maybe ten, eleven feet with the recent rains.  I know it’s wide enough for boats to go down, but not so wide we can’t make it.  Right?  We can make that.”  She’s trying hard to remain calm, but I can see the whites of her eyes in the darkness.

Reaching out, I grab her hand in my own.  “Hey.  Hey!”  She tears her eyes away from the water in front of us.  “We can do this.  I’m a solid swimmer.  I can get you across.  I promise you.  Okay?  We can do this.  We need to do this.  But you can’t panic.  You’ll go under if you do.  Just… it’s shallow enough that if you go down, for any reason, don’t fight it.  Just hold your breath, and once you hit the bottom, push off really hard.  Really hard.  You’ll come back to the surface, and I’ll get you.  I promise, Mae.  I will get you.”

She nods, determination written on every line of her face.  “Right.”

We don’t have time to stay frozen on the muddy edge, but it’s hard to force our feet to move forward.  The water is a thick brown, with white, churning eddies dancing on its surface.  Every now and again something indiscernible bobs to the surface before it is pulled back under and flung downstream.  A shiver races along my skin as a tight bundle of twigs passes by, looking eerily like skeletal fingers grasping at the unforgiving water.  I take a deep breath and step into the surprisingly warm current.  It’s faster than I’d like, especially as tired as we are; I can already feel it pulling me, and I know there’s no chance we’ll make it straight across.  Changing my focus, I look toward the bend in the river, where the tree branch from moments ago is lodged against an invisible rock in the water.  That’s where I think we’ll end up, on a thin strand of rocky silt below unexpectedly high, stone cliffs.  There’s enough light to see, but barely, both upstream and downstream disappearing into the rapidly settling darkness of the night, and it’s making me nervous.  

“Maela.  We have to go now.”  I’m getting anxious, the shadows of the forest flickering in and out of my vision.  “They’ll notice soon.”  I’m guessing we’ve only been gone ten minutes, and Iris said we’d have half an hour, but things change, and each pounding heartbeat feels loud enough to call all the monsters hiding in the dark to my doorstep.  Maela nods and moves beside me, feet slipping on the rock, but she steadies herself, gripping my arm with a bruising strength.    

Still staring at the water, she repeats the plan.  “Newport.  Iris’s flat.  Bus to Poole.  Ferry to France.  Disappear.”  Turning to face me, she smiles, tight and nervous, but from her heart.  “And then a little cottage with ten cats and cakes and coffee for every meal.  And peace.”

I smile back, feeling the tension on my own face.  “And peace,” I echo.  She squeezes my hand tightly, and we move forward together.  “Keep your eyes open,” I warn.  “There’s a lot of debris coming from further up the river.  And just… stay with me.”  She nods, and then we’re waist deep, staggering against the undertow.  

It’s a battle from the start.  Maela slips again and goes under almost immediately, coming back up with a spluttering breath, but pushes on.  The second time she sinks, it takes her longer to surface, and I grab her, flipping both of us to our backs and towing her under her chin.  She inhales deeply, fighting to stay relaxed as water splashes over her face.

“Good?”  I grunt, and God bless her, because you’d think she was sunning herself on a cruise ship when she answers.

“Yup!” she chirps, voice cheerful, body trembling. 

Then it’s silence and struggle, and nothing else for what feels like a century.  The Wye isn’t wide, but it’s difficult swimming against the current while dragging Maela along with me.  My head is turned to focus on our landing point, and Maela’s is facing the other way, looking upstream, shaking hands occasionally grabbing a floating stick or clump of grass and pushing it away from us.  I’m constantly correcting course, adjusting us so we don’t go too far down, where we won’t be able to climb up the other side because the walls are too steep.  But we’re doing it, and we’re almost there… we’re so close… when she shouts “Kai!” in a terrifying bean side wail and just… just flings her body from mine, shoving my hand from beneath her chin.  The movement is so fast and unexpected that I am jettisoned away from her before I can think.

In the darkness, even over the hollow, rushing sound of the river, I hear a deep, heavy thud, and it echoes out like a gunshot.  And then a heavy tree limb, edge raw and broken, surges past me, tumbling violently on the unforgiving river.

“Maela!  Maela!”  And now I’m panicking, screaming and fighting the water because I know, I know in my bones, that sound was the branch hitting Maela, that she saw it coming, knew it would hit both of us, that it would take us both under, so she just… Fucking.  Let.  Me.  Go.  

It’s only been a second, and less than a second, before I dive beneath the surface, angling my body to try to intercept hers.  My fingers are outstretched, grasping at anything.  Please, please.  I made a promise.  Please.

I hit the thick, sucking bottom and realize I was stupid, stupid, stupid, because I didn’t take a deep enough breath.  Little orbs of light like will-o-the-whisps dance behind my eyelids, and my lungs spasm, but I’m not surfacing without her.  We’ll both become sprites and live beneath the water forever.  I made a promise; I made a promise.  My fingers comb the bottoms, hitting rocks and old, jagged wood, then get caught in a tangle of thick weeds.  Everything is pulsing in and out in dizzying waves, and I’m choking as my throat convulses, when I realize the weeds are hair.  With everything left in me, I grab as tightly as I can and push off the bottom, dragging her unresisting body with me.  

◆◆◆

We break the surface with a desperate gasp on my part and the silence of death on Maela’s.  And there’s nothing pretty about survival now, no careful plans or plot points, just ugly, vicious clawing at the edges of life in the form of rocky, muddy banks.  I can’t keep her head above water long – can’t even keep my own up – and I’m swallowing enough to flood my lungs, but we’re so close.  Closing my eyes I pull and pull, and the bitter irony of it being easier now that she’s… asleep… isn’t lost on me.  

There’s only so far an empty body can go, though, and I am moments from that point when my shoulder bumps against something solid on the distant shore, dragging feet barely scraping the slippery bottom of the river.  I don’t have time to be thankful, because I quickly realize that the angle of the bank is too sharp, too steep, and that I have nothing left in me to get both of us out.  For me to scramble up the side I’d need both hands, would have to let Maela go.  There would be no other way.  Even now, I’m gulping to breathe, an odd whooshing sound like a far-distant train fast approaching.  We’ve made it, and yet we haven’t, and I’m so angry, so, so angry, that a tiny fire of strength surges to life.  Maela’s eyes are closed, her limbs limp and pale in the water, like a naiad, like the painting of Ophelia floating in the reeds.  I pull her up as close to me as I can, her forehead against my cheek, oddly sticky, and I push back panic.  Think.  Think.  You’re not being pushed downstream.  Where are you?

Blinking the water from my eyes, I can just focus on the branch beside me, lodged at an odd angle against the shore.  I know this branch.  You’re at the curve.  Just a little more, Kai.  Just a little more.  Everything is heavy, as though thousand-pound weights are tied to my wrists and ankles.  “Concrete shoes.  Sleeping with the fishes”, I mumble inanely, then curse myself for wasting the energy to speak.  Shoving Maela against the tree, I roll her painstakingly up onto the mud and rocks, wincing as I see long scratches against her skin as the bark rubs her raw.  My legs are trembling, kicking beneath me, but I hear her voice on repeat, over and over, screaming the warning, “Kai!  Kai!” before pushing me away to save me, and I keep going.  Just a little more.  Just a little more.  The tree branch acts like another person, and though Maela folds like a child’s doll, she doesn’t slip back toward me.  I can’t be careful, can’t protect her as she rolls over sharp stone and thick mud, but slowly, slowly, she is more out of the river than in, just her calves and feet still hanging loosely in the water.  It’s enough, just enough, and I want to check that she’s breathing, to make sure it wasn’t all a wasted effort, on her part or mine, when I feel a shifting, a sliding.  

The branch beside me trembles, the combined weights of me, of Maela, of the river, loosening it from its place wedged against the shore.  My eyes flare open in alarm, but before I can move, a swirl of rushing water curls around me, and the branch breaks free, dragging me along with it.

Newport, Newport.  I’ll see you in Newport.  If either of us survives.  And then there’s no time for anything but breath and blackness, but panic and pain.  

Newport.  

Une Dame Française

29 April – Maela

I have a morbid fascination with death, or rather, not with death per se but its threshold.  I don’t know why; perhaps it’s the terrible yet utterly mundane power of that moment on the brink, about to take that step, that step which unites all creatures great and small, into the beckoning unknown.  When I read about the French Revolution, or Henry VIII and his wives, I’d always wonder what the ordeal was like, to kneel in the shadow of the blade, to know that it would hit you and there was nothing you could do.  That now, I am.  That then, I pray to be.  Would I be brave?  Would I meet the blow with equanimity?

The branch swings towards me.  I can see it coming, heavy and sluggish yet inexorable, and know there’s no way to avoid it.  It’s going to strike us, and I… react.  Screaming, I push for all I’m worth.  Because I must.  And then a thump, and I am transported. 

◆◆◆

De profundis.  Somewhere, deep, deep in the hush of the endless dark, something stirs.  A small creature, weak, translucent, shapeless, yet a wink, a glimmer, a glow, there, just over there, something moves in the abyss.  And another, and another, sparks of turquoise blue, drifting in the cold currents, swirling, slowly coalescing into a new creature, this one of blood and flesh and bone.  A Maela… a Maela girl, my mind whispers.  Maela girl, I croon.  Someone said that, once, a long, long time ago.  Once upon a time.  

I lie quietly, stretched on a rack of pain, remembering.  Ten years old, at Bolinas Beach with my parents, playing in the water.  I’d leap up to meet each wave, trying to surf it to the shore, I think, that, or pretending to be a porpoise.  But I didn’t jump high enough the last time, and the white crest broke over my head, sending me tumbling down.  I screamed, terrified, as the waters closed over me and I was pommeled into the sand.  But now?  Now, I just want to sleep, to slip back under the waters, into lovely, dreamless, peaceful nothingness.  I shake my head feebly and wince.

There’s a rushing noise and a dull throbbing, inside my skull and out.  I retch, spitting helplessly, and then I feel them.  Teeny, tiny feet, crawling over my tender skin.  I put up my hand to swat them away and mewl; my fingers have scraped raw flesh.  I pat, more cautiously, the fly buzzing in my ear, and open my eyes.

I’m suspended in water, hung over a branch like washing on the line.  I turn my head to look around and gasp as myriad hands tug at my hair, anchoring me in place.  The strands are loose, I realize, and tangled in twigs, a host of Lilliputians holding me down.  What?  My fingers scramble at the mass, pulling and snapping until I am free and can raise my head.  

My eyes take in the river, the steep banks twisted with ivy, the gnarled trees, and everything comes rushing back to me.  The angry current, the shorn bough looming in the water, Kai… Kai!  Where is she?  I push up, gazing wildly around, and then I’m falling, sliding off the wet bark into the foam, grabbing at the air.  My hand catches on a vine, and I give a little sob, praying the tendrils will hold.  The other scrabbles at the mud, seeking purchase.  I dig into the bank, grimly willing myself out of the water, knowing if I fall again I’ll be swept away.  And then how will I find Kai?  One inch, two, coughing and sputtering, I ease myself onto the yielding ground, burrowing like a field mouse into the weeds.  For a moment, I lie there, breathing deeply, then I roll onto my side and push myself to a seat.  Where is Kailani?  My eyes search the water.  There isn’t any moonlight to see by; the land is shrouded in darkness.  “Kai,” I whisper, then more loudly, “Kai!”  

Only the river answers, and for one awful moment I fear the worst, but I clamp down hard on the budding hysteria.  No!  Don’t think that way, Maela!  Kai is a strong swimmer.  She obviously got out a little further down.  You’re looking in the water, when you should be looking in the woods.  Sheesh!  Way to make a mountain out of a molehill.  Get a grip and go find her.  I force myself to my knees, swaying slightly, then to my feet, putting out my hands for balance.  “Kai?”  I call again.  I wait, the trees pulsing in time with my head, but all is quiet.  The night air is chill, and I’m shivering uncontrollably, but at least it’s keeping me awake.  I take one step forward, then another and another, and then I’m falling again, into the leaf-mold and silt.  Winded, I pause, gathering myself.  “Riverbanks slope, Maela,” I mutter.  “Get with the problem!”  

Crablike, I scuttle along from tree to tree, keeping my center low, chanting the plan to keep panic at bay.  “Step one: follow the river to Chepstow.  Step two: bus to Newport.  Step three: break it to Kai that we don’t have passports.”  All the while, my eyes search the riverbank.  But I’m alone, utterly alone, beneath the whispering pines.

◆◆◆

“From Wibbleton to Wobbleton is fifteen miles. / From Wobbleton to Wibbleton is fifteen miles. / From Wibbleton to Wobbleton, from Wobbleton to Wibbleton, / From Wibbleton to Wobbleton is fifteen miles!”  I’ve moved on from reciting the plan to nursery rhymes.  The jaunty rhythms are keeping me going.  I don’t know how far I’ve come, although it feels like fifteen miles.  Possibly ten.  At least five.  I had to stop for a little rest a while ago.  I wanted to keep going, but my legs gave out.  So I sat and cataloged my scratches.  I’ve got a pretty interesting collection, and when I see Kai I’ll make sure to have a moan.  Yes, when I see Kai.  There’s been no sign of her, and there would have been, if…  Hah!  She’s undoubtedly already in Chepstow.  The woman has legs like a stork.  Fifteen miles would have been nothing to her.  Heck, she probably swam there.  She hoiked me up onto the branch and was going to follow, but there was probably an unexpected surge just then, so she let herself be carried along, which is absolutely what you are supposed to do.  You don’t want to swim against the current; you want to paddle along, parallel to the shore, out of the rip.  So.    

I’m looking forward to seeing Chepstow.  When I stopped, at the bend in the river, the night was just beginning to retreat, dawn an opalescent promise on the horizon.  I glanced to the right, at a break in the trees, and my eyes could just trace the outlines of a great castle rising up from sheer cliffs.  I’d been fretting that maybe I’d got completely turned about and was going the wrong way, deeper into the wilderness, nothing but the river and woods on either side, but then, there across a shadowed water-meadow was the castle, with the town sleeping at its feet. 

I picked up the pace when I saw them, almost giddy at the knowledge that some measure of safety was nearby.  Surely, now, I didn’t have long to go?  But my lying eyes lied, and I’ve been trudging through ferns for a good mile.  Definitely half a mile.  At least a quarter mile if my aching feet are anything to go by.  I’m tired and I’m cold and everything hurts.  And now I’m officially off my trolley.  The whole thing was a mirage, wasn’t it?  I’ll never get out, ever.  I’m doomed to wander, a wraith among the Welsh forests.   “From Wibbleton to Wob–”  A grey stone wall rears up before me, and  I crumple to my knees with a sigh.

I don’t mean to fall asleep, but when I blink open my eyes, I know that hours have passed, because the sun is shining through the trees, and I’m marginally less damp than before.  That’s a thought, though.  I can’t just wander down the high street, looking like something the cat threw up and then dragged backwards through a bush.  The idea is to not draw attention.  I look at my muddy shoes, the thin, sea-green trousers, and oversized, brown tee-shirt, at my scratched hands and arms.  I know without looking that my hair is filled with rats’ tails, and I’ve got a goose egg on my head.  How on earth am I going to explain this?  I look like the wild child of the forest, and not in a groovy kind of way.  I inch around the castle wall towards the river.  Nope.  There are beautiful orange wildflowers growing out of the rocks; there is also a very long drop.  Off to the right then.  Ordinarily, I’d be in raptures: the battlements, the arrow slits, the towers!  Now, though, all I can think is that the curtain wall is damn long.  I trudge along, slinking under the walls, mind racing, as I think what to do.  

First things first: find Kailani, who is obviously going to be at the nearest café.  We’ve talked about it, how exquisite that first cup of coffee will be.  But, I falter, putting my hand to my trouser pocket, how will she pay?  Iris gave me £30, but there wasn’t time to divide it with Kai.  

OK.  Kailani will not be in the nearest café; she will be outside the nearest café, waiting impatiently for me to get my ass in gear and catch up.  I see a path, curving towards a road, and scuttle across the green.  Coming, Kailani!

I hurry, trying to ignore the curious stares of a group of tourists descending from a bus.  Then, just before turning onto the road, I stop, cowering under a stand of trees.  What if Nom-nom and Dye-job are here?  How will I hide?  Where will I go?  The red hair sort of gives me away.  I touch the long strands.  Dye-job.  Dye.  Job.  “Oh, Maela,” I breathe.  “OK.  Find Kai.  Get a coffee.  Change your hair.  There are people around, so you should be OK.  You can always scream.”  A memory stirs, Remember, princess, if someone comes at you, scream for all you’re worth and try to get into a store.  I shake my head, wincing at the movement.  Focus, Maela!

Five minutes later, I’m wandering down a pretty little street, with bunting flying overhead.  The buildings are pink and cream and robin’s egg blue, and I find my spirits lifting.  Somewhere, nearby, will be a café, with dark-roast coffee and a warm scone dripping with cream and raspberry jam.  Or a pastry, stuffed with almonds and chocolate and more almonds and then dusted with icing sugar.  My stomach growls at the thought, and I giggle nervously, afraid someone will hear.  I look around, but I needn’t have worried; mid-afternoon, the street is quiet, and no one’s paying attention to anything but their mobile phones.  I square my shoulders.  “Come on, Maela.  If you’re hungry, think what poor Kailani must be feeling.  She’s probably tapping her foot and wondering what the hell is taking you so long.”

Only, there’s no Kailani at the first café, nor the second.  No tall, too-slim form leaning against a window, shaved head turning impatiently, catching me with hawk-bright eyes.  No husky voice tutting, “There you are!  Where have you been?  I’m starving!”  I scuttle along the pavement, peering into windows, wondering, hoping, biting my lip, and trying not to make eye contact.  I do manage to nip into a mini-market, squelching along the aisles to pick up some hair-dye and thanking my lucky stars for self-checkouts.  But Kai is nowhere to be seen, and I have to tamp down hard against a rush of hysteria.  Outside, in the watery sunshine, I plonk myself down on a bench beside the war memorial and think about what to do.  Maybe I actually made it here before Kai?  If she ended up on the other side of the river, then it would probably take her a little longer…  Or the search party caught her, and she’s back at Mt. Ida, in the peaceful place, screaming…  I hiss, trying to get a hold of myself, but the images keep coming.  Kai, swept down the River Wye and into the Severn, thrashing as the currents carry her into the Bristol Channel and out to the Irish Sea.  Or, more likely, trapped beneath fallen branches, penned against the cliffs, struggling to breathe as the waters rise higher and higher, wondering why I’ve abandoned her.  “Or,” I whisper fiercely to myself, “laying low, keeping an eye out, and trying not to draw attention, unlike some numpties who go wandering around in wet clothes and talking to themselves like a crazy person.”  I need to get myself cleaned up and find a place to wait.  “Stick with the plan, Maela,” I mutter.  “Newport.  Poole.  France.  New–”  Oh, Maela!  Of course!  My head gives a little throb at the realization.  Kai’s gone to Newport, to Iris’s flat.  That was the plan.  She wouldn’t take the chance of hanging around Chepstow, so close to Mt. Ida.  She must have hitched a ride with someone.  

I get to my feet and start walking again.  I need to find the bus station.  But first I need to regroup and have a little rest.  I’m feeling so spent I swear my vision’s going blurry.  Kai won’t begrudge me a coffee.  I amble along, trying to look relaxed, like a camper come into town to pick up supplies, maybe, or a gardener who’s simply been cleaning out a fishpond.  And then I see it: a lovely little cream and black building, with purple, yellow, orange, and pink flowers spilling out of hanging baskets above the door.  I look at the sign, “The Queen’s Head”, painted with a lady in a ruff like a dinner plate, and smile.  There’s a man setting out a green, metal table and chairs, and I make for him like a homing pigeon.

“Hello?”  The word comes out as a squeak; I clear my throat and try again.  “Hello?”

This time he hears me and turns around.

I can’t help it; my hand goes involuntarily to my hair.  Oh my knickers, the man is gorgeous.  Warm-brown skin with a hint of copper; an oval face, high cheekbones, full-lipped mouth, and sparkling, black eyes with smile-lines at the corners.  His head is shaved, and his long arms are sleeved with black tattoos.  He’s wearing a vee-necked grey shirt and black jeans.  I goggle, momentarily rendered mute by this casual display of male perfection.  None of the orderlies or doctors at Mt. Ida looked like that.

He, however, does not appear as impressed with me.  “Alright?” he asks, frowning, taking in my bedraggled state.

Belatedly, I remember that I’m supposed to be incognito and quickly make a decision.  “Allo?  You are… open?”  Gods help me, I’m channeling my mother for all I’m worth, right down to the tinkling little laugh.

“Not until 5:00.  But there’s a café on the high street if you’re looking for a coffee and a sandwich.”

My face falls.  “Ees OK.  Ah weel wait.”  I can’t trudge back to the high street.  I just can’t.  My legs will give out.  And I’m paranoid that I’ll be spotted by someone from Mt. Ida.

He looks at me curiously.  “Did you want a room, then?”

Not with the money I’ve got left after forking out £7.50 on hair dye.  Talk about highway robbery.  “Oh, no.  I am… ‘ow you say?  Faire le camping?  But ah…”  I gesture to myself.

His eyes follow, one thick brow drawing up, clocking my muddy clothes and soggy shoes.  “You take a dip in the river?  Fully clothed?”

I giggle, wincing inside.  “Ah take photo.  Of ze castle.  Ah back up, to get mah face in ze frame.  Zen, ah fall.”

He stares at me for a moment, then bursts out laughing.  “Are you saying that you fell into the river while trying to take a selfie?  Tourists!  You’re mad.  You know that, girl?”

I nod sheepishly, and he stops chuckling.  “You’re also lucky.  The currents here can be dangerous.”

Don’t I know.  I shrug, biting my bottom lip.

“Well, come on.  We’d better get you cleaned up.”

I look at him hopefully, and he shakes his head.  “We can’t leave you looking like a drowned rat on the doorstep.  Come on in.  You can use the shower in one of the empty rooms, and then I’ll make you a coffee.  I don’t suppose you have a change of clothes in that carrier bag?”

“Non.  ‘Air-dye.”  

“Hair-dye?  You’re having me on.  You fell into the river, got out, and thought, ‘I know.  It’s the perfect time to dye my hair?’”

When I say nothing, too flustered to think of a convincing answer, he shakes his head again.  “Are all French women this crazy?”  Thinking of my mother, I want to nod but just wrinkle my nose.  He continues, eyes alight with laughter as he gestures me inside.  “You didn’t hit your head when you fell, did you?  Should I call a doctor?”  

I pout and step through the doorway into a stone-flagged hall.  “Ah want a change.”

“Fair enough.  Just try not to get any dye on the towels.  Annie’ll have my head.  There’s an empty room you can use upstairs, first door on the right.

A lilting voice calls from the room at the end of the hall.  “Zeb?  Did you finish putting out the tables?”

Zeb?  As in Zeb of the when he gets his cock out, it’s a knockout?  That Zeb?  I turn slightly, looking at him with renewed interest.  Way to go, Iris!

“Almost, Annie.  Just rescuing a tourist who fell into the river.”

There’s a startled silence, then a white-haired head pops around the doorframe.  “Nefoedd dda!  Alright, bach?”

I give a little wave and a dip, and she turns her bright eyes on Zeb.  “Have you got her a cup of tea, boyo?”

“Now in a minute.  She’s just going to get cleaned up first.”

“Upstairs, first door on the right.  There’s a hairdryer in the closet should you need it.  Zeb can pop your clothes in the dryer while you shower.  And then you’ll come downstairs for a bite to eat.”

The head disappears before I can protest, and I look bewilderedly at Zeb.  I’m not used to people being so nice.  Shouldn’t they be telling me to eff-off, or at least ignore me and pretend I don’t exist?  Why are they looking after me?

He smiles.  “Better do as she says.  If you leave your things outside the door, I can put them through the express wash-and-dry.  They’ll be done in half an hour.”  He looks at me more shrewdly.  “Or would you like that coffee first?”

Shower or coffee?  It’s really no contest.  “Oui.  Café.  Merci,” I say firmly.

He throws back his head, revealing white, even teeth.  His laughter is infectious, and I can’t help but join in as he leads the way to the bar.  I wonder if I should tell him I know Iris, but how would I explain?  By the way, I know your girlfriend.  How?  Oh, I was a patient at Mt. Ida.  Why?  Oh, traumatic brain injury.  I discharged myself.  But Iris agrees I’m stable.  Probably.  She told me all about you, you know.  But not to blush.  She thinks you’re an amazing lover.  Put it like this: your snake made her quake.  Yeah, that would go down well.  I say nothing and concentrate on the smell of coffee.  

Road to Newport

Kailani

By the time I can catch my breath and the river slows, my fingers are bleeding from clawing the rough wood of the tree branch.  It was the only thing that kept me afloat for what felt like hours, though it could have been minutes or days.  It’s full dark, and difficult to see much of anything through the twigs and leaves still clinging to my makeshift life raft.  I realize why I’ve been jolted to sudden consciousness from my fugue state; my feet are dragging on the ground, finding sandy purchase even as the water continues flowing around me.  The branch has slowed as well, catching on a mix of sand and mud.  It’s not stopping though, and I can tell it’s only a matter of time before it gets tugged away from the shoreline again.  Panic seizes my throat, bright and vicious, and I force my frozen fingers to uncurl, bolts of electric pain shooting through my locked knuckles and shaking hands.  Without my weight behind it, the branch lurches forward, spinning, and is taken out into the disappearing wilds.

Shivering, I stumble up onto cutting rock, skin wrinkled and white, even in the gloom.  I have no idea where I am – the simple river crossing having turned into a nightmare – and collapse heavily onto the unresisting ground.  Maela.  I want to cry, but there’s no time for softness or sorrow when you’re in the midst of the hunt.  The sun and sadness will rise together in the morning; for now, though, the shield of night is my only chance to gain ground, to outrun the hounds of hell that are surely tracking us by now.  Maela knew the plan, I try to reassure myself.  She was safe on the bank.  I got to her in time.  I’m sure I did.  It’s a hollow comfort but will have to do.  

Looking around me, I wipe away the water from my eyes, before jerking my hands down, away from my face.  Don’t touch your head.  Don’t touch your head.  A cold, stabbing fear runs through me.  What if they saw?  They’re far away, far, far away still, dancing with donors and luring politicians with money and power, but… but if the nurses were here, if they were sneaking through the shadows toward me, saw me reach up and almost touch my scalp…  Perhaps it would buy some grace if they knew I didn’t mean to… I would never…  There is a warmth on the side of my head, though, something slower and more viscous than water.  What if I’m injured?  What if I’m bleeding?  I need to check.  Don’t touch!  Don’t touch!  But I need to check!

Lifting a violently trembling hand in front of my face, I stare at it as though it belongs to a stranger.  When did I become so frightened of life, of such simple tasks like knowing the lines of my own face?  It is monumental, the weight of my skin and muscle and bone, curved in front of me in thin, delicate fingers, and it feels as though, if I can’t do it now, in the darkness, surrounded by nothing but a poisoned past and a possible future, that I never will.  It takes more effort than anything I’ve done so far tonight – more than swimming the river or searching for Maela or holding on to the torn limb of the tree – but I force my hand to rise, swallowing burning nausea and marrow-deep fear, and touch my temple, where a throbbing pain has started playing a staccato song.  I can only leave it there a heartbeat, then jerk it away, staring at the crimson on my fingertips.  Well, that’s not good, I think inanely.

No time, though.  If I’m awake and can focus, blood and brain damage will have to wait.  Looking around me, I frown.  I’m on a little – well fuck.  I think I’m on… an island?  Maybe?  It’s hard to tell.  Almost directly overhead is a large bridge, its lights glowing coolly from above.  Upriver there looks to be the shadow of a small lighthouse on the water, though it's not shining.  There is land close to my right across seemingly shallow water, and much further to my left, across the deeper, more quickly moving river.  I don’t remember Maela mentioning a bridge at all, or a lighthouse, or water that spanned this far across, and fear prickles my skin.  Think.  Just think.  

Taking a deep breath, I consider my options.  I’m already trembling from the cold, from the rush, then crash, of adrenaline, from pain, and panic.  I don’t know if I can make it across the wider part of the river, don’t know if that’s even the right way to go.  Somehow I’ve gotten completely turned around, our earlier crossing washed away from my mind like the branches downstream.  What if I’m on the correct side, if the river turned and this is where I should be?  Or what if I’m on the wrong side, and I walk straight back into hell?  You need to make a decision, Kai, my brain whispers.  Just move.  You can figure things out, but you have got to move.  Right.  I nod decisively, then immediately regret the action, my temple throbbing and pounding.  I’ll aim for the achievable and figure everything else out after.  Turning to the right, I stare across the dimly lit stretch of rock and sand, then tiredly lift my feet, and trudge forward.

◆◆◆

The less remembered about the rest of last night, the better.  My feet are cut and raw, still pruney, despite having been out of the water for hours now.  By the time I finally reached shore, the night had fallen completely silent, even the hollow echoes of the cars overhead having disappeared.  Knowing I was too tired to continue walking, I stumbled toward some sort of maintenance building just offshore and tried all the doors.  They were locked, but just as I was about to give up, I noticed a low, cracked window and managed to push it open and wiggle inside.  I ended up in some kind of storeroom, obviously little used, judging by the grit of dirt beneath my feet and the musty smell thick in the air.  There was no light in the room, and I banged into several hard corners before fumbling for and finding the door.  It was already locked, but I maneuvered some heavy, creaking pieces of furniture against it, then finally, finally collapsed in a heap, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

When I wake – hours later, judging by the late afternoon sun lighting the room through the smeared windowpane – I take in my surroundings.  There’s no noise in the building – no sounds of feet scuffing or laughing voices, and a sort of cautious relief nudges against my breastbone, loosening the tightness in my chest.  Peering around, I realize I was right in my assessment the night before; somehow luck had found me, and I’d ended up in what looked like a large janitor’s closet or old storage room.  Outside the grimy window the parking lot is empty, no cars visible.  It gives me the cautious confidence to shift the items in front of the door and carefully open it.  The entire building is hollow and echoing; I move on cat feet anyway, looking for alarms or cameras.  Evidently, a maintenance building doesn’t rate such high tech, and it is, as far as I can see, completely safe.  

Several offices inside are dimly illuminated with pale safety lights, which give enough glow to see.  By a few of the doors are hooks holding bright-orange jackets with reflective strips, heavy boots lined neatly beneath them on the floor.  Those won’t do – too bright, too glaring, and I’m still looking around carefully when I spot a breakroom across the open floor.  Seven holy hells, thank you is all I can think before I’m across the expanse and opening the fridge.  Inside are the usual leftover office lunches – some dodgy takeout, a yogurt, a bottle or two of indiscernible liquid.  But there are also a few seemingly unopened Starbucks iced lattes and a disturbingly bright-yellow sandwich still in its packaging, labeled Tesco Coronation Chicken.  Both it and the drinks have bright Post-it notes attached which read Patti’s!!!  DON’T EAT!!!  HOWIE!!!  This means YOU!!!  FINAL WARNING!!!  

Sorry, Patti, I think, popping open one of the coffees and downing it with something close to orgasmic joy.  And sorry, Howie, because by the sounds of it, you’re in for a world of hurt.  Three exclamation points and all.  I’m guessing you deserve it, though.  Grabbing the sandwich and the other two drinks, I also nick an apple and a couple of bottles of warm water from the counter.  Throwing them all quickly into an empty plastic bag someone left balled up by the sink, I look around for anything else I could use, then, finding nothing, leave the room.  Okay.  Let’s find Patti’s office.  She sounds like the kind of person who has spare clothing “just in case”.  Frowning, I inhale deeply.  I really thought the little, disembodied narrator in my head would disappear when I left the hospital and am more than a little concerned by the fact that she’s still up there, whispering to me in my voice.  Kai! she snaps.  Focus.  Get some clothes if you can and get moving.  

It takes me longer than I’d like – Patti’s office was easy to find, but the woman must be as big as a minute, because I can’t even fit an arm into the prim cardigan draped over her chair.  Replacing it carefully, I duck in and out of several other rooms, being sure not to disturb anything or leave any signs that I was there.  I finally hit the jackpot in the manager’s area, where a sad box marked Lost and Found sits, overflowing, in the corner.  Five minutes later I’m a fucking fashion model in a slightly too small, long-sleeve tee-shirt that says BALLUM, with a heart, and ridiculous pair of track pants that reminds me vaguely of something MC Hammer would have worn in his “Can’t Touch This” video.  But they’re clean… well, cleanish… and dry, and paired with an awkwardly bright pair of sneakers, I look almost like I didn’t just escape from a mental hospital.  Almost.  Topping off the look, I plop an odd hat on my head – something between a baseball cap and a beanie – which is big enough to cover my shaved scalp and the rapidly rising bruise at my temple.  

Studiously ignoring the trembling in my hands from daring to touch my head, I take one final glance around the manager’s room.  Ding fucking dong!  And now my hands are shaking in anticipation instead of fear, because, on a little bookshelf half-hidden behind the desk, is a stack of books next to a half-full jar of candy.  Real.  Fucking.  Candy.  And I am about to house it all, because I can’t remember the last time I tasted chocolate, and I’m pretty sure in this moment I’d sell my soul for one of the mini Reese's Peanut Butter Cups buried at the bottom, telltale orange wrapper obscured by blue tubes of Smarties, small bars of something called Galaxy chocolate, M&Ms, and a variety of things I’ve never heard of.  Curly Whirlys, Yorkies, Aeros… it’s all going in my mouth, sooner rather than later.  Feeling like a cartoon character, mouth watering, I hum happily under my breath, fingers outstretched, when I jerk to a halt.  The jar… the jar which holds all the happiness of the Universe within its glass walls, is locked.  It’s fucking locked, with a bright note on it that says Bawdy Babes Book Club ONLY!!!  HOWIE!!!  KEEP OUT!!! – Melanie, Sophie, Jen, Abbigail, Lynnzie, Gabrielle, and Trina.  WE WILL REPORT YOU TO HR.

“Ohhhh, fuuuck you.”  Whispering frantically to myself, I fumble at the lock, shaking the jar, trying to open it.  “Fuck you, Howie.  You absolute fucking unfrosted pop∙tart of a human being–” and out of nowhere the press of tears stings the bridge of my nose.  Of course, of course I can’t get into the candy, and for some reason that realization almost breaks me.  Of all the things that have happened – the river, the water, the dirt and mud and chaos and Maela – of everything, this little thing is what almost breaks me.  The shiny reflection of an orange wrapper just on the other side of possible.  It’s my life distilled into a jar of chocolate – I know what I want, can see it, almost taste it, but it’s just out of reach, taunting me.  Here I am, Kai, it seems to say.  Here I am.  What’s wrong with you that you can’t get to me?  What is wrong with me?  A better question is probably, what is right with me?  

Nothing.  Nothing.  

Biting back a scream, I throw the stupid fucking jar towards the wall, but it lands in the box of lost and found instead and tips it slowly over, clothes spilling out on the bare floor.  I’m busy putting everything back when little pinpricks of anxiety start creeping along my skin.  You’ve been here too long, the little voice warns.  There’s nothing visible that has me suddenly breathing more rapidly, that has my shoulders tightening, just a pulsing heartbeat inside my chest screaming move, move, move.  I’ve spent too much time in dangerous places to ignore that feeling, the little spidey-sense tingling in my veins, so I rush quickly to the restroom, risk a quick rinse of my hands and face, then sneak out a side door.  

The light outside, though fading in the late afternoon clouds, is still bright enough to sting my eyes, and I flinch back from the openness of the world around me.  A clenching fist of fear around my lungs has me seconds from turning around, from scurrying back inside and hiding from the world.  But I can hear Maela’s voice from the bank of the river repeating, “Newport,” over and over again, and I steel myself to step forward.  Nothing is easy anymore, I realize suddenly, a low keening of sadness locked in my throat.  All you need to do is walk.  That’s it.  And even that thought locks your muscles in quivering indecision.  Touching your head.  Breathing too loudly… nothing is thoughtless.  Not now.  Maybe never again.  Never mind.  Just get to Newport.

Easier said than done though.  I have no idea where I am, no inclination of which way to go, and, other than my aching feet, no way to get there.  Well, amend that, I think, a little smile twitching up the corner of my lips in some unfamiliar feeling.  Across the paved lot, leaning against a lightpost, is a little black Vespa.  It has a loose chain on it, and an alarmingly low tire, which is, I’m guessing, why it was left here.  But I don’t need a full tire and don’t need keys to get it started either.  I’m even able to make quick work of the chain, what with being at a maintenance building.  There are tools everywhere, so less than fifteen minutes later, after MacGyvering that shit with a handy pair of bolt cutters, a paperclip, and some shadily acquired hotwiring skills, I punch Newport into the GPS and cross my fingers.  Ah, holy hell.  I must have come really downstream.  Frowning, I look at the directions.  Two and a half hours away by major motorways, and north of me.  

Something feels off about it, about the location being north, being such a long drive, but the chittering feeling of being watched washes over me again, and I shiver.  Just go.  Just go now.  Glancing around one last time, I don’t see anyone or anything, but know in my bones that my time here is up.  I’ve been given a grace period but have been in one place too long, so I stow my small bag of provisions under the seat, where a helmet is usually stored, and turn the small scooter onto the open road.  I’ll figure out the rest when I get to Newport.  It will all make sense when I find Maela, when we are on our way to Poole, to the ferry, to France.  And then to peace.  

Clown Car

Seef

Note to self: never, ever drive for any distance with three other blokes in a Ford Focus again.  I’m grateful for the loan of Finn’s car; I really am.  But what the hell possessed him to buy such a compact car?  OK, perfect for city driving, good mileage, easy to park.  But still…  And Kavi, being the big fucker that he is, took one look at the car and declared he could only fit in the front seat.  Which left me and Jorge in the back.  He looked about as thrilled at the prospect as I did.  Emlyn, naturally, somehow bagged driving privileges and refused to give up the keys when we stopped to fill up the tank.  And the two-and-a-half-hour journey turned into six because, despite leaving in the dead of night, there’d been an accident on the M4, and the road was closed in both directions.  So we had to take a diversion, and since Kavi can’t read maps, even when they’re on your phone and talk to you, we got lost between Slough and Reading.  And what happened when we finally pulled up at Mt. Ida?  The place was closed for a special event.  All day.  Fucker at the barriers wouldn’t let us in, and we didn’t want to draw even more attention by arguing.  He already looked suspicious.  Four men voluntarily coming to visit a country house, no wives or girlfriends in tow?  None of us look like art historians, although I tried when Emlyn asked if the house was open to the public.  For such an intelligent man, he sucks at cover stories.  I mean, how many art historians have shrapnel wounds?  In fairness, we weren’t expecting the road to be closed.  The drive to the house?  Sure.  But the road itself?   The idea was to park the car in a lay-by, and then scout the area on foot.  There are public rights of way crisscrossing the Wye Valley, and four more hikers at this time of year shouldn’t raise an eyebrow.  But we had to turn around and go back to Chepstow for another planning session.  If there was an event going on at Mt. Ida, no way we’d get close enough to see anything, not without getting spotted ourselves.  I spent the afternoon trying to work out the kinks in my legs and twiddling my thumbs, well, one thumb.

But the kinks merely migrated to my back, as I discovered when I got up this morning, and a day reconnoitering in the woods hasn’t improved matters.  I’m going to take great pleasure in stuffing Kavi into the boot of the car when we return to London.  Jorge can stretch out on the back seat all by himself.

He was our sacrificial lamb, the charming foreign professor with a passion for Tintorettos, or Canalettos, or whatever the fuck Italian painter any self-respecting country house would have.  Jorge dropped us off a half-mile from the property, then drove right up to the gate, the one across the private drive, this time.  And he made his English so terrible that he didn’t understand when the guard told him the house wasn’t open to the public.  Jorge just spoke louder and louder in Spanish, waving a piece of paper with fancy stamps that we’d put together the previous afternoon.  All in Spanish, of course, but with the “Ministerio de Cultura” prominently displayed.  Amazing what you can do with a PDF-editor.  Eventually, the guard gave up and sent him to the house, radioing ahead, where some woman named Enid Garner spoke just enough Spanish to say that, no, they didn’t have any works by the Italian master and so sorry but there must have been a mistake.  She was brusque to begin with, and on edge, Jorge says, but he laid on the smoldering eyes and smiles, and she melted just enough to suggest that there was a very fine Van Dyke in the drawing room, if he’d like to see?  Naturalmente, although he didn’t get any further into the house, and she stuck to his side the whole time.  The only useful information he gleaned was that the place is now some sort of convalescent home, which makes us think we’re on the right track.

Meanwhile, Emlyn, Kavi, and I checked out the grounds.  I had tried to suggest that Kavi, and Jorge too, for that matter, stay in Chepstow, seeing as how they don't have any relevant training, but they both just looked at me, and I knew that if there’s a chance that Maela really is at Mt. Ida, nothing is going to keep them from her side.  

We didn’t discover much.  Mt. Ida is your typical country estate – river, deer park, formal gardens – but something was clearly up.  The place had what I can only describe as an agitated feel.  Every so often, we heard shouting coming from various parts of the building, as if there was a search going on, and we could see people moving rapidly back and forth behind the ground-floor windows.  Once, a group of men headed out towards the woods, making us duck for cover behind some sort of maze-like hedge-thing.  In other words, not suspicious at all.  We’ve decided we’re going to head back there tonight and break into the building.     

Speaking of which.  “Come on, Emlyn,” I shout.  “Stop primping, and let’s get this show on the road.”  The bathroom door opens, and Emlyn glares at me, toothbrush in mouth.  Why the man needs to brush his teeth before we grab an early bite to eat, I don’t know.  Yeah, we’re sharing rooms, as are Kavi and Jorge, although if they didn’t have twin beds two of us would be sleeping in the car.  The landlady said there’d be a room free tonight, but I’m not sure if I can be bothered to move.

“Come on, sunshine,” I repeat.  “I could eat the ass out of a dead rhinoceros.” 

He disappears, but not before giving me the two-fingered salute.  I tap my fingers impatiently on my thigh.  Combat fatigues would be a little obvious, so I’ve thrown on ripstop cargos and a long-sleeved black tee.  I’ve also strapped on my prosthetic.  Call me sick, but if we run into trouble, I’d love to do that thing where I let my arm come away and punch the other guy’s lights out while he’s staring in horror at his hand.  It would crack me the fuck up.

Emlyn comes out of the bathroom, smelling minty fresh.  He’s gone for tactical boots, jeans, and a dark-blue top.  “Honestly, it’s like rooming with a Hobbit,” he gripes.  “Only you go for first lunch, then second lunch, then a late afternoon snack, and–”

“Yeah, yeah,” I cut him off.  “But this muscle won’t maintain itself.”

He snorts but follows me out of the room.  Bastard won’t admit it, but I saw him snarf a packet of salt and vinegar crisps when we got back earlier, and I know he’s just as peckish.

Jorge calls out that they’ll be with us in a minute, they’re just checking something on one of the maps, so Emlyn and I head down to the bar.  The landlady, who’s all of 4-foot nothing and bears a striking resemblance to a dandelion puffball, does a mean steak and ale pie, and I’m dying to see what her sausage and mash and homemade gravy taste like.  She clucked in Welsh as she served us last night, and although she made me feel like thirty going on three, it was kind of nice to be fussed over.  

The same barman’s there, and he nods at us as we come in.  “Be with you in a sec.”  Although the doors have just opened, the room’s already half full.  It’s a homely space, with low, exposed beams, scuffed, wooden floors, and varnished tables with mismatched chairs that have clearly seen many a session.

I turn to study the specials board, a piece of slate above a fireplace that projects slightly into the room.  The soup of the day, written in chalk, is lettuce and peas.  Weird, but O.K.  The barman’s now setting down a door stopper of a sandwich on a table for one by the fire – lit, although we’re into June – and I hear a singsong “merci”.  The voice, tired but melodious, catches at my heartstrings.  I glance over at the tourist and do a double take.

Emlyn pokes me in the back.  “Move, we’re blocking the bar.  Let’s grab a table…  Seef?”

I can’t take my eyes off the girl.  “Emlyn,” I breathe, “call me crazy, but I’ve just seen Maela’s black-haired, French twin.”  My gaze travels over her features.  Black-haired but blue-eyed, pixie-faced, and slight, so slight, as if a breath of wind would blow her away.  I blink, scarcely trusting what I’m seeing.  It’s been so long.

“Maela?” Kavi repeats, as he and Jorge come up behind us.  Emlyn’s been struck dumb.

Up ahead, the little vignette plays out.  “Oui,” the girl says, “Ah would like ze ketchup.”  

My feet are moving of their own accord.  “Maela?”  I don’t recognize my voice, it’s so high-pitched and hesitant.

The girl looks up, and her pale skin drains to translucency, a fine, blue vein throbbing at her temple.  She gulps, closes her eyes, and mutters something under her breath.  I can make out a “no muddle” and “clear head” and narrow my own eyes, confused.  Emlyn, Jorge, Kavi, and I glance quickly at each other, disbelieving, before turning back to the girl.  Kavi looks pole-axed, and Emlyn like he’s just been shot.  Jorge is stunned, his face caught between elation and despair, as if he’s battling wave after wave of bewilderment and fright.

The girl opens her eyes and whimpers.  “Medicine… knew it… fuck!”  Her gaze travels round the bar, and I think, this can’t be Maela, because she would have said feck, but the French accent’s disappeared, and my heart gives a spasm of hope.

The girl’s eyes come back to rest on me, and I know.  Maela.  My soul whispers her name.  Maela.  And now that I’m up close, I can see that she’s given herself the world’s worst dye job; there’s no way that’s professional.  The daft moo probably got freaked out by the instructions not to get any dye on her scalp and left a good quarter inch of red roots showing, no doubt worried her hair would fall out or something.  All of a sudden, I’m angry.  We’ve been going out of our minds with worry, and here she is calmly tucking into a bacon sarnie? 

Maela’s hand tightens on the glass, and she bites her bottom lip, as if making a decision.  Then she nods and throws the water full in my face.

“What the hell, Maela?” I bellow.  The movement breaks the spell we’ve all been under, and the other guys push forward.  Maela looks from me to Jorge to Kavi to Emlyn and gives a little squeak.  Then her eyes roll back in her head, and she’s slumping forward.

I grab her before she face-plants into the sandwich.  “Shsh, princess, shsh.  I’ve got you.”  I keep repeating the words, over and over, though she hasn’t made a sound, holding her to me.  God, she’s so thin.  She always was a delicate little thing, but now she looks half-starved, a waif complete with a dab of mud in the shell of her ear.  Even her freckles look dull.  The tee-shirt that’s at least three sizes too big isn’t helping, nor are the ghastly foam-green trousers.  There’s a small hole in one of her grubby tennis shoes.

The other three crowd around the table, each reaching out to touch an arm, a leg, her hair, wanting to reassure themselves that she’s alive and with us.  Four and a half months.  Four months, 13 days, and 18 hours of not knowing, of waking up each morning with a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach and falling exhausted into bed each night, praying to a god you’re not sure you believe in, “please, please, please.”

By now we’ve drawn more than one raised eyebrow, and the barman comes over to see what all the fuss is about just as Maela’s eyelids flutter open.  She moans, burrowing into my chest, as if she can’t quite believe I’m real; but at the same time, she’s trembling all over, a mouse beneath a hawk’s stare.  I look up at Jorge, whose own eyes are glittering, and he murmurs, “She’s scared.”  Of us? I mouth incredulously, and he gives a short nod, looking grim.  Maela’s now babbling, “Breathe, breathe, breathe.  Inhale, pause, exhale.”   I kiss the top of her head, trying to offer comfort, and my mouth encounters a welt.  “You bump your head, princess?  How’d that happen?”  I clear my throat.  “Your teacher not train you well enough?”

“Everything OK?” the barman – Zeb, I think is his name – asks.

Emlyn’s become an automaton.  “Yes,” he answers tonelessly.  “Our friend’s just feeling a little faint.”

“So she did hurt herself,” Zeb mutters.  “I wondered, but she said she was fine.”

Emlyn goes preternaturally still.  “Hurt herself?”  

“When she was taking a selfie,” Zeb explains.  “She fell into the river?  Turned up looking half-drowned and asking for coffee.”  He looks at us curiously.  “You’re not camping with her, then?

“Yes,” Jorge replies.  “But she came out early with a friend.  You haven’t seen another girl, tall, dark haired, American?”

“Sorry, no,” Zeb shakes his head.  “Shall I call a doctor?” 

Kavi crouches down.  “I’ve got medical training.”  He takes one of Maela’s hands in his.  “How’re you feeling, Maela girl?  Can I have a look at your head?”

“Maela girl,” my princess whimpers.  “I’m… I’m a good girl.”

“That’s right,” Kavi croons, voice breaking on the last.

Maela’s patting my arms blindly.  “Here?  Here?”  

I clutch her to me.  “I think we’d better get Maela up to the room so she can have a lie-down.”  Cursing my lack of a left hand, not trusting the prosthetic, I prepare to hand her over to Kavi, but all of a sudden, she stiffens and pushes me away, peering suspiciously at us.  “Seef?  Emlyn?  Kavi?  Jorge?”

I nod, taking in the wide, black pupils and shaking hands.

She looks at Zeb, now looking curiously at us, and, if possible, goes even paler and sways on her feet.  I reach out an arm, but she steadies herself on the back of a chair.  “I’m fine,” and I don’t know if she’s talking to herself or us.  “I’m fine.”

Our eyes tell her we beg to differ, and she colors faintly.  “Merci,” she mumbles to Zeb, “Ah go now.  Mah sandvich?  I take?”

What the fuck?  Who’s the Zsa Zsa tribute-act and what’s she done with Maela?  “Leave the sandwich, Maela.  If you’ve got a concussion, you should have some ginger tea, maybe some soup.”

Her eyes flash murderously at me, and I throw up my hands.  “OK.  OK.  I’ll bring it.”

Zeb looks unsettled – we’re standing around her like a phalanx – but there’s a murmur from the bar, and he nods as Maela starts towards the door.  We move en masse, not a snowball’s chance we’re going to let her more than a foot from our side.

She makes it out of the bar and to the bottom of the stairs before she crumples.  This time, Emlyn catches her, sweeping her up in his arms.  We’re a grim procession as we make our way to the room and close the door, shutting the world out.  Emlyn lays Maela down gently, and we each take up a position.  Kavi leans back against the door; Jorge stands by the window; Emlyn sits at the foot of the bed; and I take the chair, pulling out my gun.

A Hall of Mirrors

29/30 April – Maela

“It’s the ‘what the hell’ that convinces me that maybe, just maybe, I’m not hallucinating.  And apparitions don’t drip, do they?  Water would go right through them.  But how could they be here, when they do not exist outside of my subconscious?  I need to make sense of things.

I open one eye and peer cautiously around the darkened room.  I’m cuddling with Jorge now; Kavi’s in the chair, Seef is by the door, and Emlyn’s peering out of the window.  They’ve been rotating positions all night, silent sentinels standing guard over my dreams.  I close my eye and go back to thinking.

I haven’t slept, not really.  I’m too restless, and I can’t seem to stop shaking, even though my skin feels hot.  My thoughts are a neon ball spinning from bumper to bumper, bouncing off lights and pins as I frantically pull on the levers, high-pitched bells ringing in my ears.  Right.  I suffered a traumatic brain injury.  I’m an English major, writing a book on Romantic poetry.  Really, dear, what use would that be to law enforcement?  I was in a coma.  My mind dreamt up figures to protect me.  Look at you!  A short, slovenly, freckled thing.  A plain, petulant, disagreeable, self-centered nobody.  I mean, there’s no way I knew them before.  Not me.  Maybe I saw an advert with an underwear model – OK, four underwear models – and that is what inspired the guys.  Four fabulous confabulations.  But then, how are they here?  And how do they know me?  My head throbs sharply, and I surf a wave of nausea.  I will not be sick.  I will not.  I do not need my medicine, not anymore; I’ve been skipping it lately, when I can, and I haven’t had a setback.  I’m just suffering the effects of a blow to the noggin.  Hah!  Maybe it joggled my brain back into place.  One blow to cure another.  

How do I know their names?  Or do I?  Maybe in real life, they’re called Bob, Dave, Jim, and Bill.  I pause for a moment, considering… Nah.  How are they here?  I fell, hitting my head and breaking my leg.  It was in a cast.  I saw it.  And before that I was a secret agent.  And before that a postdoctoral fellow.  And on and on and on, a Russian doll in a hall of mirrors.  I’m drifting, enveloped in the scent of bergamot, mahogany, and black pepper, and I snuggle into Jorge.  He feels real.  The last time I saw them, they couldn’t see me, couldn’t hear me; I couldn’t touch them.  But now?  He stirs, “querida?” and his arm tightens around me.  I don’t answer.  If I don’t speak, don’t break the spell, I will stay here, in this dreamworld, forever.

◆◆◆

“Kai!” I call out, but she doesn’t hear.  I’m so relieved that she’s alive, I could weep.  I knew it!  I bloody knew it!  She stuck with the program and didn’t panic.  I mean, she looks about as awful as I feel, but she’s still going, even though her eyes are glassy with exhaustion, sunk into a grey face that’s streaked with grime, and her feet are stumbling.  She’s managed to find a change of clothes, out of a bin presumably: tracksuit bottoms, long-sleeved tee-shirt, and a truly awful hat.  Still, she doesn’t look like an escapee from a mental asylum, which is the main thing.  I look around.  We seem to be in some sort of park; I can see the shadows of mature trees and shrubs dotted across the lawn.  Nearby, I hear a rasping growl and cough, as if from a great cat, which makes me jump, but Kai doesn’t seem to notice.  Where on earth is she?  She must be keeping to the back roads, which makes sense and is so like Kai to remember to do.  It’s the little details.  She looks up, and I follow her gaze to see the outline of a large building with – I squint, turrets, I think – ahead.  Something pointy, anyway.  Trust Kai to find a country house!  And now she’s sinking into the grass, as if her legs won’t hold her up any longer, and I whisper, “It’s OK, Kai.  Take a rest.  I’ll watch over your sleep.”  For a moment, the night is still, and I revel in the sense of peace, but then I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to see… nope, just nope.  I blink, but the animal’s still there.  And now it’s been joined by a friend.  Rhinoceri.  Rhinoceroses?  Of the family Rhinocerotidae.  I study the powerful forms.  Stubby legs?  Tick.  Large heads?  Tick.  Tick.  Long, sharp horns?  Tick.  Tick.  Tick!  “Oh, Kai,” I breathe.  “Where have you got to?  And what the fuck?”  Kai’s curling into the grass, oblivious, and I want to shake her and scream, “Run, Kai!  Run!” but I can’t get a hold of her arms.  “Kai!” I try again.  “Kai!”

“What is it, querida?”  Someone’s stroking my hair, trying to soothe me.  He sounds like Jorge, and I smile.  And now I can smell bacon.  Mmm.  Breakfast.  Rhino breakfast!  I shake off the hand and sit bolt upright.  I need to go.  Now.  Where are my shoes?  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, looking.   

By now, the others have come to cluster round us.

“Maela.”  Kavi lays a gentle hand on my arm, and I swat him away.  I don’t have time for this.  I’ll figure it all out later.  Kai’s about to get trampled by rhinos!

“Where are my shoes?”  I just need to get them on, and then I’m good.

Seef eyes me narrowly.  “Just where do you think you’re going?”

I swipe a strand of hair off my face.  “I have to find Kai.”

Emlyn frowns.  “Do you know where she is?”

“Sort of.”  I stand, trying to get around him. 

“Sort of?”  One eyebrow slides up, and the familiar gesture catches at my heart, so that, for a moment, I can’t breathe.

“I’ve got an idea,” I mutter mutinously.  Country house.  Rhinos.  Near Newport.  Now, if they’d just get out of my way, I could go rescue her. 

“And?” Emlyn prods.  

What the fuck is this?  The Inquisition?  “Kai is on the grounds of a country house.  There are rhinos maybe thirty feet away.”  I’m horrified to find my voice is trembling.  “And possibly a big cat.  A tiger, maybe?”

Kavi and Seef exchange a glance, and Jorge takes a deep breath.  “Maela,” he begins carefully, “you–”

“I’m telling you I saw rhinos!” I hiss.  Why won’t they listen?  Nothing is making sense, nothing, but I need to find Kai, or I really am going to lose it.  

“Maela,” Seef puts on a reasonable face, “you’ve hit your head and probably concussed yourself.  Just lie back down and try to relax.  You’ve had a weird dream, that’s all, and you need to rest.”

I glare at him, clenching my fists.  Who died and made him a medical expert?  I resolutely ignore the fact that, yes, I did hit my head quite badly and yes, I did once dream of scary, dancing elephants.  But… I also dreamed about the guys, and now they’re here, which they can’t be, and I have to go.

Kavi chimes in, no doubt trying to be reassuring.  “Country houses do not have rhinos, Maela.  Peacocks, maybe, but not rhinos.  And definitely not tigers.  Not live ones, at least.”

Emlyn hasn’t said anything, and I round on him defiantly.  My world’s a fractured kaleidoscope, but I know – I know in my bones – that Kai is in trouble.  Emlyn’s looking at his phone, as if searching for something, and answers slowly.  “Actually… they do.”  He holds out the phone to me.  “Is this what you saw, Maela?”    

I glance at the screen and nod.  A large stone house, with turrets and three rhinos grazing on the lawn.  The website reads: Cotswold Wildlife Park and Gardens.  “Is that near Newport?”  Last time I checked, Newport was in Wales, but what do I know?  Everything’s been turned around.

Emlyn shakes his head.  “About two and a half hours away.  If we left now, we could make it in under two.  But, Maela, you shouldn’t move.  You’re not well.”

Seef looks disbelieving but is pulling out his own phone.  “There’s a chance Maddox hasn’t changed his number yet.  I don’t know, Emlyn.  Worth the risk?”  

Worth the… worth the risk?  “Make the fucking call!”  The last is a raptor’s cry.

Seef jumps.  “Fuck me!” and gives me a cautious look, as if he’s not quite sure who I am, but he presses a button.  He holds the clunky device to his ear, waiting.  “My bru…  We may have a lead… the Cotswold Wildlife Park and Gardens… Alright.  Let me know.”  Seef ends the call and shakes his head at Emlyn.  “He’s going to check it out.  How the fuck did you figure that out?”

“I saw a brochure, when we stopped for petrol on our magical mystery tour of the North Wessex Downs.”

I’m shaking again and wrap my arms around my middle.  “Do you think she’s there?  Why?  We’re on our way to Newport, so we can get a bus to Poole and then a ferry to France.  What’s she doing in the Cotswolds?”

Jorge wraps his arms around mine, and I relax against his chest.  I can feel his heart beating, slow and steady.

“We’ll find out,” Kavi assures me.  His brilliant green eyes search mine.  “In the meantime, you need to rest.  We’ll sort it all out in the morning.”

“I can’t rest,” I murmur.  “I never do.”  But my eyes are already closing.

Rhinos and Romance

Kailani

I wake up in a haze of purple flowers, sprawled out on cold ground two-hundred yards away from a stunning English manor, with a rhinoceros inches from my face. 

Aw fuck, Kai.  This… this is not good.

The rhino snorts, breath warm on my skin, and I really want to tell it that it is way overdue for a toothbrushing, but I’m too confused to form the words.  

You are, as Maela would say, completely fuckited, I think.  Lying frozen in place, barely inhaling, I fumble through the tangled knots in my brain trying to figure out what in the actual hell is going on.  First and most importantly, I need to remember if rhinos are aggressive.  Christ on a cracker.  Was it rhinos or hippos on that Wild Kratts episode I watched with Lachy’s niece?  My brain trips and stumbles over the thought, and I frantically shove it back down into the cobwebbed basement of my mind.  Do NOT think those names.  The rhino snuffs, wrinkled nostrils flaring, making a low mmwonk sound.

Ah, God damn it.  Does that mean “I’m going to eat you” or “Chill out, stupid human”?  I think… I think rhinos are mellow.  Unless disturbed.  Hippos are the crazy ones.  Oh God.  Please let the Wild Kratts know their shit, or I’mma ‘bout to get chomped.

I decide not to move anyway, discretion being the better part of valor and all that, so I just stay curled up as the enormous creature noses around me, and try to figure out where the hell everything went so wrong.  Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start! I sing to myself silently and close my eyes, sending my thoughts tumbling back over the course of the last few days.  Maela waking me up, pulling me stumbling along behind her, a flash of light and sound, the sharp closing of a door and frantic eyes, then the trip to the river, the coldness… how long have I been gone?  One night was the river.  One night was the Vespa.  The Vespa got a flat, and I had to hike.  Really hike.  Did I even go the right way?  Was it just last night?  Has it only been two nights?  Is today day number three?  Number four?  How long did I sleep in the storage closet?  Could I have slept a full day there?  I was exhausted.  What time did I even get there?  Mmwonk.  The rhino looks at me through tiny, glassy eyes.  

God fucking damn it.

I try to trace my path here, try to connect the dots that led me from a broken-down Vespa to a fragrant field surrounded by African goliaths.  I just remember stumbling for hours, fueled by two uncomfortably warm iced lattes and half of what ended up being a very dodgy chicken sandwich.  Freaking Patti probably poisoned it to trick Howie into eating it and dying, because I’m fairly certain it was laced with something meant to convince him never to steal her food again.  Clever, clever Patti.  Things are so loosely connected in my head that it’s all spider webby wisps of thought, and I’m suddenly seized by a cold, clammy feeling, like skeletal hands around my heart.  Something I hadn’t considered before, but as the rhino huffs around me and the vibrant violet flowers wave gently overhead, a sickening thought bubbles up like black oil in my brain.

Is this real?  Ohhhh, fuuuuck.  Fuck.  Is this even real?  As if in answer to my question, two long-necked giraffes appear in the distance, ambling gracefully by the edge of the stately, grey-stone house, and spots of dancing light dance at the edges of my vision.  Kai, calm down, my voice whispers in my head, and I want to tell it to go fuck itself, because it’s all so… freaking… obvious now.  It’s crystal clear and makes so much more sense than us actually escaping, than us going anywhere other than the looping rings of hell where we live.

I’m still in the hole.  I’m in the hole, and it’s all been a dream.  The certainty is a lead balloon in my stomach.  That explains the wetness of the river, the blood on my fingers, the fucking rhinos.  There was no mad dash across Gatsbyesque lit fields, no frantic search for Maela in the weeds at the bottom of a river.  No conveniently empty storage closet, no kindly old man… nothing.  I’m lost somewhere, deep, deep in the woods of my mind, in a mad fantasy that is trying to protect me from the outside world where something has gone clearly, and horribly, wrong.  The rhino honks like a goose, then makes a squeaking noise like air being let out of a balloon, and I roll my eyes.  My stupid fucking brain can’t even come up with a real rhino sound.  You fucking, fucking idiot.  Will you never learn?  Will you never, never learn?  You are not made for good things.  You never have been.  The only place you will ever find happiness is in your dreams.  Let go, Kai.  Just.  Let.  Go.  

And so, I do.  

“Kai!”  My name echoes across the field, a frantic plea on the lips of a desperate man.  “Kai!”

The rhinos do not like the violence of sound bursting from the man’s throat, and I soothe them in a quiet croon.  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I sing under my breath.  “None of this is real.  Umm… hush, little rhino, don’t say a word, Kai is gonna buy you a mockingbird…”  I’m trying to reassure them when my name rings out again, and the rhinos startle away from me, retreating to the far edge of the meadow, close to the manor home.  Frowning, I turn my head toward the sound.

Maddox is striding across the field like Thor, icicle eyes almost glowing in the early mist, and I sigh.  Of course.  Of.  Freaking.  Course.  All he needs is a half-buttoned pirate shirt and a sword to complete the image.  He’s looking around intently as though searching for something, running his eyes along the fences, to the house, to the rhinos, scanning every inch of the grounds in tight, controlled movements.  I can tell the second he sees me, buried in the flowers, because he comes to a dead stop, eyes wide and wild, chest heaving, like someone from the cover of a romance novel.  I’m almost disappointed he’s not wearing a half-buttoned, billowing pirate shirt.  Or, oooo!  One of those Downton Abbey thingies where he has on the tight riding pants and the black coat with the top hat.  I could definitely roll with some skin-tight breeches covering those thighs.  As it is, he’s head to foot in his typical black combat gear, and dirty to boot.

“Kai…” he whispers, voice broken, excruciating hope and disbelief clashing in the single word, and I roll my eyes.

“Really, brain?  This is what you come up with?”  I am not amused.

I can tell he hears me, even though I’m barely speaking, because he looks confused and alarmed and, oddly, hurt.  “Kai?”  And now he’s moving toward me, hand outstretched, footsteps careful, as though trying not to spook me.  Little does he know that I am on to his games.  Well, my games.  My stupid, stupid brain’s games.  

“You are not supposed to be up here,” I say loudly, closing my eyes.  “Get back to the basement with everyone else or they are going to FIND YOU.”  I almost scream the last words but swallow them instead.  I don’t want to alarm the rhinos any more than I already have.  I crack an eye open to peer through long lashes and check on my giant wrinkly friends.  “You okay, guys?” I ask.  I’ve never had rhinos in my brain before, and I kind of like them.  Teeny-tiny phantom pets.  They’re cuter than I thought they’d be.  “Lil’ fluffballs,” I murmur affectionately.  

“Kai?”  He’s so hesitant, which is how I know I’m right, that my mind fractured into a million little pieces the night I knocked the nurse out to let Maela sleep and everything since has been dreams and nightmares.  Because Real Maddox would never be hesitant.  He’d never look at me like he is now, like a dream and a wish have appeared before him and all he has to do is reach out to take them to have them.  He’d never say my name like that, curled up with longing and heartbreaking tenderness.  And I’m suddenly furious at Dream Maddox for stirring up long-buried emotions in me.    

“I’m not kidding.  Stop your shit and get back to where you’re supposed to be,” I command in an angry whisper.  

“And where’s that?” he asks, voice incredibly gentle, heart-breakingly careful, as he comes near enough to me to feel the heat from his body, before he stops and drops down to his heels.

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” I mumble.  “Stop asking questions.  If you don’t listen to me, they’ll come and grab you and steal you away forever.  You know that.  We’ve had this talk.”

“Who will, Kai?” he asks, leaning forward before freezing.  “What happened?”  There’s a long, strangled pause, and then, “What did they do to you?”  His voice is crackling ice, and I finally open my eyes to look at him.  Well, at-ish him.  I never focus directly on their faces, or they drift away.  I’ve found that, if I concentrate just over their shoulders, I can keep them near me for a minute or two, sometimes longer if I’m very, very careful.  

“What do you mean?” I ask despite myself, because… well, it’s just so fucking nice to hear his voice.  And it’s clearer than it has been in months, all of its timbre and resonance back, not just the hollow ghost it has become over time.  

“Your hair…”  He is shattering, and I frown.

“What is wrong with you?  You know better than to ask about that.  We don’t talk about that.  We don’t think about that.  What the fuck?  Jesus Christ!”

Dream Maddox is an unknown right now, refusing to obey, fighting for control of the situation.  “Oh, baby girl.”  A world of sadness and sorrow is born in his words.  

I am feral.  This softness and pity isn’t permitted in my safe places.  If I give into those emotions in the nights, I’ll never survive the days.  How long have I been in the hole that I’m losing control like this?  I need to get it together, or I’ll drift away inside my mind and never come out again.

“Stop talking about that,” I snarl, and he nods in quiet compliance.  That’s better.  Silent obedience, not dangerous questioning.  “This conversation is done.  Go back with the others.”  He stares at me, unmoving, eyes melting into pools of hopeless longing, and I’m suddenly incandescent with rage.  “Do you know how hard I work to keep you safe?  Do you?  And now you’re just fucking around, playing romance hero in my mind, and you are risking everything!  I get it.  The secret spot must have fractured a little, and you’re just moving pieces around willy-nilly trying to come out when I haven’t had time to fix the walls.”  I wave my hands at him in disgust.  “You’re not even wearing jodhpurs.  If you’re here, I at least deserve some tight leather.”  If he was confused before, he’s dumbstruck now, looking like his world is crumbling around him.  Little, fiberglass strands of agony pierce the skin at my temples.  “Oh shit,” I breathe in realization.  “Are they pulling you to the surface?  Is that what this is?”  Suddenly I’m frantic.  “GO!  Go!”  The throbbing pain of fast-approaching tears fills my throat.  

Maddox reaches out and takes my hand, and the world stills into a single, simple second.  

I have never felt them before in my dreams.

And it scares me beyond anything I have ever known.  

Something is different; maybe the doctors have found a new path to my skeleton soul at the bottom of the ocean, some medicine or treatment that finally opens every locked room inside of me.  And if my dreams come to life enough for me to touch them, I will never escape the prison of my mind.  I don’t know that I will even want to.  I am losing control.

“Kai,” he whispers.  “I am here.  I am here.”  His face is shattered glass, sharp-edged pain and clear, prismatic stardust.

“Smith,” I breathe back, and he nods.  “Are you listening to me?”  

“I am, Kai.”  I can tell every cell in his body is anticipating my next words.

“Good.  Then… get the fuck back inside.  Because things are going sideways.  There’s no way I’m supposed to feel you.  They are pulling you out piece by piece, and if they get you, they’ll dissolve you forever.”

I don’t recognize his face.  There are emotions that it’s never worn in the curving lines of his eyebrows, the softness of his mouth.  So maybe, maybe this is just a trick.  Maybe they haven’t found my Maddox – just fabricated this romanticized version of him, trying to lure me into complacency by giving me pieces of my dreams.  A hollow thud pounds in my chest; if they can give me the guys away from the waking world, if they can make touch real in my dreams…  What would I do for that?  Who would I be willing to become to have them back, if only for the space of a sunset?  

Narrowing my eyes consideringly, I examine him, looking for the loopholes.  If it’s a new tactic, I need to figure it out before making any decisions.  I’m about to say something when a fuzzy little bee starts buzzing around the purple flowers, still bent low with morning dew.  Jesus, Kai.  Purple flowers?  Of course you’re surrounded by them if there is a promise of happiness.  What is wrong with you?  God damn purple.  But the bee is cute as fuck.

I haven’t seen bees in my dreams – well, that’s not true.  I haven’t seen fat little bumbly ones, just angry, swarming hornets, and this one is freaking adorable, almost cartoonish, so I reach out to pet it.  

The fucker stings me.

“God dammit, you furry-eared bastard!” I roar, shaking my hand.  It falls to the ground as I put my throbbing finger in my mouth.

“Why – why did you try to pet that bee?”  Maddox sounds poleaxed.  “And bees don’t have ears, I don’t think?” he adds inanely.

“It’s probably not a bee,” I answer absentmindedly, examining my finger.  “It’s most likely a rat.  It just looks like a bee right now.  Tricky-tricky,” I hiss, glaring down at it.

“That’s… um… that’s a bee, Kai,” he whispers, looking more and more concerned with every passing minute.

“I know it seems like a bee,” I reply patiently, “but that’s a rat.”  I point to the little insect lying still on the ground.  “It’s just when I’m lost in my mind, sometimes unicorns or bees or… oh, I don’t know.  Like, chinchillas appear all soft and anime-eyed, and I’m always like, ‘oooo, that looks soft and pet-able!’ but then the nibbling starts, and sure as shit, it’s rats.  Every time.”  I poke at it with my toe.  Glancing accusingly at the rhinos, I pause.  They’re cute, but they haven’t tried to nibble-nibble, so I’m pretty sure they’re okay.  Make a note.  Rhinos = A-okay.

Maddox exhales, long and low.  He rocks back on his heels, still crouched in front of me, and just watches me.  I can see him studying me from the corner of my eye.  The silence is nice, but I think it must make him uncomfortable, because after a minute he reaches out again and grabs my hand.   I try to pull away from him but don’t fight too hard, to be honest – the touch of another human being is intoxicating.  Even a dream human.

“Kai.”  He has to clear his throat, then tries again.  “I… I don’t understand what’s happened, what’s happening.  But I need you to look at me, okay?  Please.”  He presses my hand against his chest, and I’m woman enough to admit that, for one completely inappropriate second, I’m distracted by the wall of muscle there.  I mean, I would have preferred the flowy kind of Fabio-shirt, though.  Tactical black is so unoriginal.  His broken voice brings me back to myself.  “Read me, okay?”  He’s begging.  “Just feel me.  I’m giving you permission.  Forever.  You can read me for the rest of our lives without asking.”

I whistle, long and low.  “Oooookay…” I mutter.  “Even for Dream Maddox this is weird as fuck.”  He tries to move into my focus; I stare at the rhinos behind him.  “Stop it,” I warn him.  “You know I can’t look at you.  Plus, you’re obstructing my rhinos.”

“Your… rhinos?”

“Yes.  They’re my pets.  I’ve never made rhinos before, and I want to keep them.  That one’s Dipsy.  The other’s Doodle.  Like the song.”

He tries to move again, and I close my eyes.  

“Dipsy… Doodle?...”  If he were real, I’d feel bad for him, because this is a fucked-up conversation.  But as it is…            

“Yeah.”  Keeping my eyes locked on my new pets, I sing a bit off key… okay, a lot off key, because even Dream Maddox winces, “When you think that you're crazy, You're a victim of the Dipsy Doodle, But it's not your mind that's hazy, It's your tongue that's at fault, not your noodle…”

“What?  Ah…  What?”  He’s confounded, and it makes me grin.  I love when Dream Maddox is confused.  It’s so different from real-life Maddox and all of his “do this, go there, say that” energy.

“Ella Fitzgerald?  You know, The Dipsy Doodle?”

“I can legitimately say I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  He sounds frustrated and sad and angry and just… well.  Just unhappy.  “I didn’t know you like Ella Fitzgerald.  And I have no idea what a doopsy doodle is.”

“Smith.  You’re in my head, so you know the song.  And if it gets you, well, it couldn’t be worse.  The things you say will come out in reverse!  Like ‘you love I’ and ‘me love you’, that’s the way the Dipsy Doodle works!”

“I’m not in your head, Kai.”  His voice is so helpless, and I look at him in pity.  

“You are, Smith.  I’m sorry.  But you are.”  Sighing, I lean back on my elbows, looking around the meadow.  “Hey!  Red pandas!  Cool!  But also, shit.  Because I must be deep, deep down inside right now.  Because I’m 99% sure red pandas aren’t supposed to live with rhinos and giraffes.  Or… are they?”  Wild Kratts, don’t fail me now!  But I can’t remember the episode about red pandas.  Shoot.  “What would Chris and Martin say?  They’d be so disappointed in me, Smith.”

“Who the hell are Chris and Martin?  And why are you calling me ‘Smith’ like that?”

“Okay.  First off, the Wild Kratts, you rube.  But also, like what?”

He frowns.  “I don’t know.  You’re being very… proper, I guess.  What happened to Maddox?  Or… Madds?”

“Aha!”  I point at him triumphantly.  “Caught you!  See!  Dream Maddox.  I told you.”  Flashing him a quick grin, I focus back on the house, with him just inside my periphery.  Thankfully, he’s stopped moving about.  “I’m not calling you Madds because you said not to.  You were all, ‘we’re not friends.  Call me Agent Smith.  Harumph harumph harumph.’  But you would know that if you were Real Maddox.  Dream Maddox of course wants to be called Madds.”

“What else does Dream Maddox want?” he asks, a new note entering his voice, curious despite himself, and it comes out low and alluring, like a snake charmer.  “Look at me, Kai…”  It’s a whisper, but there’s so much warm honey in his words that my eyes are drawn to his against my will.  “What else do I want?”

I shrug helplessly, a deer in headlights.  I know the crash is coming but can’t make myself move.  “You never stay long enough for me to find out.  That’s one thing you have in common with Real Maddox.”

He leans forward, slow like molasses, keeping his gaze firmly locked on mine.  “I told you that last night together that we needed to talk.”  Unblinking, I watch his face get closer and closer, feel the heat of his hands as they brush against my skin.  “We don’t have time now – we have to get you out of here.  But I do need to talk to you.  I’ve been practicing what I would say to you for months.”  His voice cracks, and he clears his throat.  “For months.  And we can’t do it now, but we will.  And the words won’t come out in reverse when I say them to you.”

He’s blurring at the edges, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s dissolving or because my eyes are suddenly stinging with tears.  “I know you’re not real, Madds.”

The name brings a sweet smile to his lips.  “I am real, Kai.”  He traces his fingers along my jaw, across my lips, with a devastating gentleness, as though he’s afraid he’ll break me with his touch.  “You’re lost somewhere in there,” he whispers, leaning forward and resting his forehead feather-light against mine.  “I don’t know what’s happened, can’t imagine what you’ve been through, but I promise.  Wherever you are wandering, I’ll find you and bring you home to me.”

I break away, and it feels like I’m peeling off my skin as we come apart.  The world is shimmering and melting, dripping down my face.  It’s all on the edge of disappearing, and instinctively I know that there will be no recovery this time, no pushing through dark days until I can escape into my dreams, where the little lightning bugs of happiness still flicker occasionally, though rarely, in the dark sky of my unconscious mind.  “Oh, Madds.  Don’t you know you’d never say anything like that if you were real?  This is where they’re messing up.  They’re making you someone you’re not, trying to lure information from me.  But here is a secret for you.  They make mistakes too.  And this mistake is so obvious.  They’ve made you wrong.  And it hurts.  So you don’t get to go down where I’ve hidden the rest of them, because you’d be a viper.  A virus – click the link and download this harmless video.  And then you’d replicate and delete everything.”  My voice is despondent.  “So I can’t let you back in.  Even though you’re the only one who can touch me.”  The words end almost on a wail, and I’m gulping back a sob.  Get a hold of yourself.  Stop this – if you fall apart, their plan is working.  You’ll crack from the inside out, and the lines will be a map inside you.  They’ll drop maggots on you that will wriggle down deep into your mind and bury themselves in your bones.  

I sit back and take a deep breath.  Calmly now, I focus on his face completely.  “I like you like this.  Of course I do.  But, honestly?  I liked you before.  That’s what they’re missing, trying to change you into something different.  Real Maddox is challenging and frustrating and doesn’t listen.  He’s angry a lot and is too caught up in the past to make enough room for a future.”

“Gee, thanks,” he says, lips twisting in a sardonic smile.  “He sounds awesome.”

His response surprises a grin to my face.  “He is awesome.  Because he’s also loyal.  And he notices things.  He’s good at handling panic attacks.  And he bought me a coffee machine.”  He rolls his eyes. 

“That goes on your list of good things about me?”

Nodding seriously, I reply, “It was a Breville.”  Shrugging, I continue.  “He has a baby-making laugh, which is absolutely delicious.  And sure, he makes mistakes.  But he owns up to them, or tries to.  He apologizes, which a lot of people don’t do.  But most importantly?  He tries his best to protect the people he loves.  And the people he loves?  He gives them every piece of himself.  And that’s where this is wrong.”  I wave at him, and he tilts his head.

“What is wrong?”

“This version of you.  Because this isn’t how you treat me.  Even Dream Maddox doesn’t act this way.”

“What way?”

“As though I’m the only thing he can see.  Like I’m… one of those people he would protect like that.”

Maddox looks unutterably sad.  “Even if I told you now, you wouldn’t believe it, would you?”

“What?”

“The words in the right order,” he replies cryptically, then, seeing the confusion on my face, takes my hand in his, thumb tracing patterns over the surface, sending little shivers along my skin.  “Can’t you just read me?  Wouldn’t that help?”

“You keep saying that.  I don’t know what you mean.”

“You… Kai… Like, my emotions?  Just read me.” 

Shaking my head, I swallow hard.  Suddenly I feel sick to my stomach.  My head is pounding, jackhammers of pain shooting in electric, pulsing currents along my temples, cadaverous unicorns bleeding from the sky.  “I.  Don’t.  Know.  What.  You.  Mean.”

“Okay, okay…” His voice is soothing, a soft lullaby of sound, and the choppy waves of nausea fade.  “It’s okay.  But we need to go, Kai.  I need you to come with me.”

“I think I’ll take my chances with Dipsy and Doodle, thanks.”

Maddox’s expression darkens, not with violence but concern.  “Kailani Reed.  I really need you to come with me.”

“Ooooo.  We’re using full names now?  I must be in trouble.  You gonna spank me and send me to my room?”

An ab-so-fucking-lutely delicious look flashes across his face, and he leans forward, icicle eyes focused completely on mine.  “Don’t tempt me, Baby Girl.  This is neither the time nor the place.  But if you don’t behave and do what you’re told, it may be on the table in the future.”

I can feel my eyes go wider, wider, wider, until I’m sure they look like saucers or some giant Chibi character.  “Um.  Not that I’m saying…  Listen.  I am not saying that…  But what…  I’m also not not saying that…  You are being purposefully distracting right now.”

There’s a mischievous glint as he raises a considering brow.  “Well, well, well.  Who knew?”

My face must be crimson, it feels so hot.  “Just shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am!” he quips and flashes a dark grin at me.  “Now.  What will it take you to trust me enough to come with me?”

“Literally nothing.”

His brows furrow in thought.  “You said I can’t go back inside with the rest of them, right?”

“Right.”

“But you think this–” he waves around him, “is all still in your mind.”

Nodding, I roll my eyes.  “You know it is.”

“So if I promise not to try to go anywhere I’m… not supposed to… can’t we just explore a little?  I won’t pressure you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.  Or to talk about anything that you don’t want to.  I’ll just –” he glances over at the animals, who have started moving restlessly, then glances at his watch.  “Must be close to feeding time,” he mumbles.  “Kai.  You’re already here, right?  So let’s just go on an adventure together.  And I give you my word that if you’re at all unsure, you tell me, and we’ll figure something else out.”

He’s not wrong.  I am already here.  And it’s nice to have some company.  Pursing my lips, I look him over carefully.  “We won’t talk about anything I don’t want to?”

“Correct.  We can just discuss books and movies or food, or whatever.”

“No memories?”

“Absolutely.”

“And where are we going?”

“I thought we’d go for a drive.  I have some snacks in the car.  We can open the windows and just go for a wander.”  He’s trying hard to keep his voice level.  There’s some deeper emotion hidden in it, but I have no idea what it is.  This is a hard conversation for him for some reason, though.

“Well… okay.  I guess.”  I’m reluctant but can’t see what the harm would be, as long as he doesn’t try to get to the secret spots of my brain.  If I don’t tell him anything, really, what could be that bad about spending time with someone who touches me with gentleness, even if it’s not real.  “Sure.  Why not?  Can Dipsy and Doodle come?”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing.  “Ah.  Maybe they’d be too large for the car?”

“Oh.  Yeah.  Makes sense.”

He gets to his feet and extends his hand to pull me to mine.  Eying it suspiciously, I  reach out cautiously, half expecting it to just pass through his, but they connect, and his warm fingers wrap around mine as he helps me up.  I stumble a little, legs half asleep, and fall into him.  He catches me, and his arms spasm in a tight flex as he presses me against him in an almost suffocating embrace.  He’s shaking – I can feel his trembling on my body – and the heat of another human being is almost painful against me. 

“Kai…” his voice breaks.  I can hear the tears trapped in his throat.  Bending his head down, he buries his face against my neck and inhales deeply.  “Kai,” he whispers against my skin, and I giggle unintentionally, his breath and beard tickling me.  He pulls back and looks down at me through glistening eyes, and his lips twitch up into a reluctant grin.  “What’s up, Baby Girl?”

Rubbing my neck, I bite back laughter.  “Sorry.  Sorry.  It tickled.”

Leaving one arm wrapped around my body, keeping me against him, he raises his other hand to my face and rests it lightly on my jaw, then runs his thumb over my lips light as a feather.  “Did it…?”  He’s quiet, as though we’re sharing a secret.

“Um.  Madds?  We have to go, right?”

He’s fixated on my lips, just tracing them over and over in melting movements, and I can feel every pulse of blood in my veins.  “Hmmm?” he replies dreamily.  “What?”

“We have to go?”

He nods slowly, not looking away from me.  “We do.”  But he’s not moving.  And I’m not pulling away.  Bending forward, he rests his head against mine, his hand still on my cheek.  “I just… I thought I’d lost you.  I thought I’d lost you forever.  And to have you here…”  His voice trails off, and the world around us is silent except for the mingled breath between us, the sound of my heartbeat and his.  “Kai.”

There’s a shimmering tension between us, the air thick and muffling.  He’s not moving forward, not drawing back, just hovering in indecision, caught in the space between us.

A faint, golden whisper flares to life in my mind, then, quick as a candle, goes out again.  But it’s enough to coax a small coal of happiness to life inside me, and I murmur, “Stop thinking so hard, Madds.  Just for tonight.  Or just for this moment.”  The words are half-memory and half-dream, something that never happened but could have, in another world.  A world where I wasn’t broken, where I was wanted and not left behind.

He lets out a shuddering breath, and for a second I wonder if it will be too much for my fractured mind, that I should have been grateful just for the touch of a hand, and not tried to dream anything beyond that.  But all thought, all of the world in its entirety, disappears when his lips touch mine.  

I have no echo left on my skin of what this feels like – being touched with passion and promise, with desperation and longing.  It is entirely new and crashes over me, waves in the ocean tumbling me, pushing me to the surface and suffocating me beneath them all at the same time.  His mouth opens, warm and wanting against mine, and I forget how to breathe, how to do anything, anything, other than be here, in the newness of this moment, in this world-creating feeling of a first kiss.  It is all bursting galaxies and electric skies, and I’m crying, crying, crying because it’s too much and not enough.  You may never wake up from this, my mind warns me, but I don’t care anymore.  The fight is gone from me; they found the tiny curve on the back of my heel, shot the arrow well, because there is no going back from this.  

“I found you,” he whispers against my lips.  “I will always find you.  It is a promise.  Wherever you go on this earth, I will hunt you down and bring you home to me.  If you are drowning in your mind, I will swim to you and pull you to the surface and breathe for you.  If you forget who you are, I will be your memory and remind you.  I have bled for you, have fought for you, have killed for you.  And I will do it all again, happily, and worse, if it means keeping you from any more pain.  I will keep you safe.  And you will never–”  His voice fractures, floods with tears.  He tries again, “You will never–” but he can’t get the words out. 

I press my fingers against his lips, and he kisses them gently, then takes my hand in his, then says roughly, “Come on, Baby Girl.  Let’s go for a drive.”  Glancing around once more, he leads me toward a distant fence, away from the rhinos and giraffe and red pandas, from the peace of the meadow and the buzzing, purple flowers.  And I follow on silent feet, willing to go where he takes me.  He is focused ahead of him, on high alert looking all around him, but he doesn’t look at me, just keeps his fingers intertwined tightly with my own.

“Not until we’re out of Hell and you’re safe in the sun,” he mutters, and I sigh.  This version of Maddox is a wonderful and wild phantom, a perfect creation for broken pieces.  But the cracks still show, even now.  

Because there is no escaping Hell when all of its demons live inside your mind.

Snowdonia

Maela

I wake to the sound of whispers and a distant voice singing in Welsh.  Sosban fach yn berwi ar y tân / Sosban fawr yn berwi ar y llawr / A’r gath wedi huno mewn hedd.  The melody is lilting and makes me smile.  I stretch like a cat, feeling deliciously rested, which just doesn’t happen at Mt. Ida.  Mt. Ida.  My heart plummets.  And then I remember.  The river.  The woods.  The guys?  I open my eyes, lash by lash, to see four masculine faces drinking me in.  Suddenly, I feel shy and almost want to burrow under the covers, but… it’s been so long.

Kavi is the first to speak.  “How are you doing, Maela girl?” 

I sit up, propping myself against the pillows and the headboard.  “I’m OK.”

“You had us worried for a bit.  You passed out and haven’t stirred for hours.  But you were still breathing every time we checked, so we figured you were just tired.”  Emlyn tries to smile but can’t quite pull it off.

I glance at the window and can see a square of bright-blue sky.  Hours?  I slept for hours?

Seef answers the question on my face.  “Yebo, princess, hours.  You kept us all awake with your snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”  I’m feeling slightly affronted now.  The man hasn’t seen me in months, and this is the first thing he says to me?

“Like a little gatito.  It was muy precioso,” Jorge assures me.

“Oh, I don’t know.”  Emlyn tries again, and this time his eyes light up.  “Maybe not so much a kitten, as a–”

“Warthog,” Seef finishes.  “Definitely a warthog.”

“Stop teasing Maela,” Kavi says firmly.  “She’s just woken up and hasn’t had a coffee.”

I beam at him.  “I always knew I liked you best.”

“Hey,” Jorge protests.  “I said you were cute.”

I know what they’re doing.  Sometimes, emotions are too terrifying, too tangled to be expressed.  To speak the truth would paralyze.  So we reach for the mundane, take refuge in a quip.

“I do need a coffee, though.”  And then, just because I need to check, I reach out and pinch Seef’s arm.

“Ow!  What was that for?”

“Just making sure.”  As I lean back against the pillows, I see Emlyn’s eyes darken, and I know he understands.  “Where have you been, Maela?” he asks softly.

The others still, and I can see the lines of worry etched around their mouths, the sallow skin that speaks of sleepless nights, the hollowed cheeks.  “Well,” I stammer, not quite knowing how to begin, “I fell and hit my head.”

“We know.  Yesterday.  Into the river.”  Kavi looks confused.  “But before?”  

“No,” I shake my head.  “In… December?  When I was mugged?”  Now they all look perplexed.

“Maela,” Jorge says carefully, “you disappeared from the ball.  Did this happen later?  We thought you’d been kidnapped.”

I nod.  “I thought so too, but then Nurse Cole said–”

“The fuck!” Seef interjects.  “Nurse Cole?”

I wince at the sudden spasm in my head.  “I waited,” I whisper.  “I did, but then there was the cast on my leg and–”

“Cast?” Emlyn breaks in.  “God, Maela, did they break your leg?”  He looks sick.

“No, I broke it when I fell and suffered a traumatic brain injury.”  The words come out as if by rote.  “I was in a coma, and my brain made up stories to help me process the assault.  Only,” I look around wildly, “you’re not confabulations!  Unless… unless I’m in the peaceful place and dreaming.”  I sob and stick my fist into my mouth, biting down hard.  “Fuck!  Ow!”

“Alright, Maela, alright.”  Somehow, Kavi’s arm is around me, and I cling to him, burying my face in his warm and reassuringly solid chest.  “There’ll be time to tell us later.  For now, how about you jump into a shower, and then we can all grab a bite to eat downstairs?”

I risk a peep at the others.  Seef’s looking murderous; Emlyn’s face is blank, and Jorge’s staring at his fists, forearms resting on knees, as if he’s feeling my pain as his own.  “OK,” I whimper, hating myself for the tremor but unable to stop it.  

The room is silent as I walk to the bathroom door, but the whispers start up again as soon as it closes.       

◆◆◆

If I’m being honest, I take a lot longer than I need to in the bathroom.  It’s not just the delicious feeling of hot water sliding over sore muscles, or the smell of the lemon verbena and lavender soap from one of the dinky little bottles on the tray.  No, I admit, as I rub toothpaste round my gums with a finger, I’m not quite ready to face the guys again.  I’m not quite ready to deal with things.  How can I trust in hope when I’ve been existing in the in-between?

I lean against the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror.  “Much Madness is divinest Sense” I whisper.  I could be hallucinating – I’ve now been off my meds for two? three? days – but I don’t feel manic.  I’m tired, yes, but not to my usual point of nausea.  I’m just wooly.  And, if I were making things up, would my head really hurt?  That seems like an own goal.  Perhaps I’d see and even hear, but would I taste and smell?  I run my tongue over my teeth; I desperately need a toothbrush.  And would I feel the cold of the water?  I cup it in my hand reflectively.   The simplest solution is usually the correct one.  I shudder, remembering.  

So, Mt. Ida was the dream.  Right.  OK.  Noted.  But…

“No, Maela,” I say crossly.  Adapt!”

I pull on my manky clothes, grimacing, and open the bathroom door to find… “Oh, thank you!”  The room is empty, but someone’s left a brand-new pair of trousers and a shirt and even a sports bra, knickers, and socks.  Two minutes later, I’m feeling properly clean and ready to face the world.  I look at myself in the mirror.  Hah!  Now that I’ve got black hair, I can totally pull off the bright-red tee.  “You, Maela,” I purr, “are a bad-ass bitch!  Yes, you are.”  I nod with satisfaction.  

There’s a knock on the door.  “Maela, querida, are you dressed?  They’ve opened up the kitchen for us.”

All of a sudden, I’m ravenous.  I haven’t eaten anything since Kai and I left Mt. Ida and…  Kai!  I hurry to the door, flinging it open to find Jorge, Kavi, Seef, and Emlyn in the hallway, leaning against the walls.  I look from one to the other.  “Have you been waiting here all this time?”  My mouth twitches, and I don’t know whether I’m going to laugh or cry.  I can’t seem to decide on an emotion, not since I looked up from my sandwich to see –  “You look like you’re in line at a bordello.”  The giggles hit me out of nowhere, and soon I’m wiping my eyes, while the four of them look on, nonplussed.  Emlyn’s doing his eyebrow thing, and Jorge and Kavi, their best imitation.

Seef is the first to recover.  “Only you would say ‘bordello’, my little hyena,” he grins.

“Bagnio?” I suggest, cackling.  “House of ill repute?  Den of iniquity?” 

“She’s abso-bloodly-lutely lost it,” Kavi observes.  Emlyn nods, though his eyes are dancing.

“Come on, querida, let’s get some food into you,” Jorge says, biting his lip.

“Into me.  Uh-huh.  Hah!” I reply, still wheezing.

We form a little procession: Emlyn and Jorge in front, me, then Kavi and Seef bringing up the rear.  A Maela sandwich.  My body stirs, feelings I’d thought long gone coming to curious life.  Now is neither the time nor the place, Maela, I think.  You might very well be having a stroke.  But I can’t help giving a shiver.

Zeb’s in the bar, and he waves us to a table.  “Have a seat,” he calls.  “I’ll bring over the menus in a second.  Late breakfast OK, or would you prefer a sandwich?”  The room’s deserted; it must be mid-afternoon.

I look at him appreciatively, once again commending Iris's exquisite taste.  “Plays a woman's body like a harp,” I murmur as I slide onto the bench, remembering something Iris said in one of her more poetic moments. 

The sudden silence alerts me that I've spoken out loud.  My only defense is that the events of the past 24 hours have blown my filters wide, wide open by.  About-face has met volte-face, and together they’ve wrenched me apart.  I’m about to apologize, to explain, when I look up to meet Emlyn’s glacial stare.  “And just how,” he asks, almost pleasantly, “would you know that?”  Jorge is glowering, and the other two look like they’ve just swallowed nails.

Really?  I met the man yesterday morning, and they think we just went at it?  Not to mention I was suffering from a concussion at the time.  And, if this really is all taking place inside my head, I may as well have some fun.  I wave my hand.  “That’s not important.  A full English breakfast for me, I think.  What about you?”

“Oh, I think it is,” Emlyn says softly.  His hand taps on the table.

“So tell us, Maela,” Seef growls, “just what prompted that statement?”

I cock my head, pursing my lips.  “No.”

“No?” Kavi snarls, actually snarls.  Hah!

I find I’m taking a sort of impish delight in winding them all up.  For the last six months, I’ve had to be demure, sleep when I’m told, eat when I’m told, go where I’m told, speak when I’m told, but now, now I can choose.  “No.  Now, if you’d all like to stop thumping your chests like a troop of silver-backed gorillas, perhaps we can have breakfast.”  I look down at the menu again, reveling in my power to unsettle them, to be bad not good, to know that someone cares.  I speak, and they react.  We are having an interaction.  

There’s a voice at my ear.  “You forget, Miss Maela, I can read you like a book.  And what I am sensing now is amusement.”  A warm breath tickles my neck, and I turn, pouting, into a pair of narrowed, amber eyes.

“Spoilsport,” I mutter.  I heave a sigh.  “Fine!  If you must know, my friend Iris.  Satisfied?”

“Far from it.” Emlyn’s still scowling.  “Who’s Iris?”

“An orderly at Mt. Ida.  And she and Zeb are an item.  He makes her happy.”  I make a measuring gesture with my hands.  “Speaking of which,” I waive, “Zeb?  Could Ah ‘av un café?”

“Oh here we go again.”  Seef rubs a hand over his face, looking thoroughly exasperated.  “What the fuck is with the homage to Moulin Rouge?”

“I’m in disguise,” I explain sweetly.  “You know, so if anyone from Mt. Ida comes looking, they won’t recognize me.  Which reminds me, thank you to whoever bought me a change of clothes.”

“You’re welcome.”  Kavi sounds as if he’s choking the words out.  “I grabbed the first things I saw in size small.  So, just to be absolutely clear, Zeb and Iris are together.”

I nod solemnly.

“And Iris likes to talk about, uh–”  Kavi’s cheeks are turning pink.

Who’d a thunk?  To see such a strong man reduced to stuttering is adorable.  I nod again as Zeb comes over with a tray full of coffee mugs.  “Figured you’d all want one,” he offers, setting them out in front of us.  “So, have you decided?”

“We’ll all have a full English,” Seef orders hastily before I can launch into my Gallic goddess impression.

“Coming right up.”  Zeb heads back towards the kitchen, and Jorge trains his eyes on me.

“So, querida, now that you’ve had a good laugh at our expense–” I puff up like an outraged adder, but he continues – “Sí, you were.  Don’t deny it,” he says sternly, and a tiny, little, feminine part of me thrills.  “Tell us more about this Iris.”

I’m starting to feel just a touch remorseful, so I choose to apologize.  “Sorry, Kavi.  And Emlyn.  And Seef.  I can see how my statement may have been misinterpreted.”  I look pertly at Jorge, who simply chuckles, making me reach for my water glass.  He places his hand over mine: “I am here.”

There’s a moment of silence, then, responding to some unspoken signal, Seef grouses, “You mean the one about long dong schlong over there?” 

“How very gracious,” Emlyn drawls.  

Kavi winks at me, and I go slightly fluttery.  “That’s OK, Elvira. We all make mistakes.”

“Elv–  Oh, hah hah.  I take it you don’t like the hair?” 

“Put it this way, princess.  I hope you used the stuff that comes out after six washes.”

“Amusing as this is,” Emlyn cuts in, “if you could get back to the topic at hand, Morticia.”

I give him the finger but explain.  “Iris is an orderly at Mt. Ida, the niece of one of the doctors.  She helped me and Kai escape.  Kai!  Oh my gods, Kai!”  How could I forget?  I turn to Seef, stricken.

“She’s OK, Maela,” he answers, reading the question in my panicked eyes.  “Maddox has got her, and they’re on their way to Snowdonia.” 

“Should we tell the others?” Emlyn asks, and Seef shakes his head.  “Better wait,” he murmurs, as I slump with relief against the wall.

“Snowdonia?”  That makes no sense.  “What’s in Snowdonia?”  For a moment, all I can think of is: Newport, Poole, France.  Stick with the plan, Maela!

“A place Gaia doesn’t know about.  Only members of my family, and half of them have forgot about it.  Belongs to my second cousin, but he’s not using it.”

“You and Kai will be safe there, Maela,” Kavi assures me. 

“But you’re coming with us?”  It’s a command: I’ve only just got them back.  And besides, if they think they’re leaving the womenfolk behind while they deal with the whole bloody mess, they’ve got another think coming.

“Claro!  We are all coming.  Both teams.”  Jorge squeezes my arm.

“We’re not letting you out of our sight,” Seef says gruffly.

I wait while Zeb sets the plates out in front of us, taking a moment to breathe in the heavenly scent of bacon, sausage, buttered toast, and eggs.  “When can we leave?”

“As soon as we’ve eaten.”  Emlyn takes a sip of coffee.  “It’s a three-hour drive, so there'll be plenty of time for you to catch us up on the way.  For now, get stuck in.  And then we’ll get you a sticky bun.  You look like you could use it.”  He clears his throat and bends to his own breakfast, concentrating on the plate.

I pick up my fork and take an obedient bite, aglow inside and out.    

Ashes, Ashes

Kailani

“... well I don’t fucking know, now do I, Doll–” 

The heavy carved door swings open with as close to a bang as something like that ever makes, and Walker, Walker, WALKER is coming through it, head turned to look behind him, ignoring the way the world is pulsing with my heartbeat, dancing at the edges in staccato haze.  Maddox makes a pained sound in front of me, something half between a breath and a sigh, and it catches Walker’s attention.  He drops his body immediately into a defensive crouch, one hand grabbing the gun tucked at his waist and pointing it at Madds with unwavering accuracy, the other swinging wide to keep whoever is behind him safe inside the house.  He stays like that for a long, long moment, before his mind processes what his eyes are seeing, and a heartbreaking look of betrayal and longing crashes over his face in waves of unrelenting grief.  

“Maddox.”  It’s not a greeting or a question or even a condemnation.  It’s just a flat, emotionless word, and Madds shudders.

“Walker…”

“No.”  Walker doesn’t look away from his face, hasn’t seen me yet, tucked away behind Madds.  He shakes his head.  “No.  Whatever you have to say you should have said months ago.  No.  You shouldn’t be here.  There’s no place for you here anymore.”

“I’m sorry.  Please.  Walker, I’m–”  Poor Dream Maddox sounds so, so sad.  But Dream Walker’s not having any of it.  

“Fuck.  You,” he says succinctly, and that, at least, sounds so like my real Walker that I lean forward, just barely, a flower toward the sun.  The movement catches his attention, and I can feel, physically on my skin, the second his eyes land on me.

There is no sound anywhere in the world, no air, no oxygen.  There is only a pair of glass-green eyes and a stopped heart.

“What–” It’s not a whisper, just a silent, shattered word hovering on his lips.

“What is going on?”  The voice comes from behind him, and a tiny pixie pushes past his unmoving body, then screeches to a halt, eyes wide, like a floppy-eared bunny, stock-still.  She audibly swallows, raising shaking hands to her throat as we just stare and stare at each other.  I can’t move, am not sure what to think or what to do.  Gemma isn’t normally in the secret spaces of my mind, where the Dreams all live.  They don’t come for her as hard as they do for the others, because they don’t know anything about her.  So I don't have to fight as hard to keep her safe from the fisherman’s lures, from the mind-erasing pills that strip dreams and reality from you and leave you a hole to be filled with whatever they have crafted.  Gemma hovers somewhere else – I’m still not confident enough to think of her often.  She is part of my faded world.  But sometimes, when I’m cold and the night is closing with teeth sharp as knives, I pull her to me and remember what it felt like to be loved like family, to have value to someone’s heart.

But her hair is vivid purple, the color of forced happiness, and it makes me nauseous.  I can’t breathe, can’t focus on her face as it flickers in-and-out with the woosh of my pulse in my veins.

Even in this strange half-reality, she knows the map of my face and clenches her jaw at whatever she sees, then relaxes with deceptive ease.  Inhaling sharply through her nose, she forces a smile that barely trembles at the edges and, trying her absolute best to sound cheerful, says, “I love the new do, Kai.  Ten out of ten would smash!”

Walker grunts behind her.  “Four out of four would smash, Gemms.  Let’s not add any more to this.  Four is enough.  But absolutely,” he adds thoughtfully, voice shaking with suppressed emotion.  “Absolutely smashable.  Is that a word?”

It’s so out of place, so inappropriate, yet so totally Walker, that my eyes fill with tears and spill over, unchecked.  I can tell it alarms him, but he’s distracted by the low, raw voice of Madds.  “Five.  Five out of five.”

There’s a tense silence, and neither man says anything.  Gemma’s eyes flick between Madds and Walker quickly but are drawn back to me, her smile wavering, eyes glistening.  She’s about to speak when the door behind her creaks open further, and Jonah steps out.  Well, someone who is wearing Jonah’s skin, who has his features but not his sweetness.  The Jonah in my mind is curves and sunshine, waves and salt spray.  This Jonah is all sharp edges and dark corners, cracked cement and gleaming blades, and I flinch unexpectedly back.  This isn’t Dream Jonah.  This is Nightmare Jonah, and I don’t know what he’d be doing here with the others.  

He freezes; I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest in panicked rhythm, as though he’s run a marathon or surfaced after an eon beneath the water.  

It’s strange, this place we’re in.  On one side of an invisible line is Gemma, is Walker, and Jonah.  On the other, me.  And hovering in between is Maddox, who has a cautioning or cautious hand raised to the group on the steps, as though to warn them to be quiet and still.  It’s the motion police use when they are approaching a victim, the method adults use when trying to reassure a frightened child.   

Jonah must be able to see him from his peripheral vision, because although his eyes never leave my face, he forces himself to calm down.  Raising a shaking hand to his head, he runs it over his scalp lightly, then says inanely, “I lost it fighting.”

“So did I…” I whisper against my better judgment, and his face collapses.    

“Kai–” he begins, but he can’t get any further, and I’m fiercely glad, because all of this strangeness is like snakes twisting in my stomach.  It’s suddenly too much, and when I wake from this dream, or nightmare, I think I’ll claw my eyes from their sockets so I never have to see again.  No more skeletal, dripping unicorns.  No more endless white walls or hospital-corner bed sheets.  No more Maela crying in the night with me helpless beside her.  No more flashes of purple, no more crimson-red glasses, no more blinking lights or empty faces or pleasant places.  Just… no more.  No more.  My hands are already drifting up to my face, fingers curved in sharp talons.

Why wait?  I’ll just rip them out now I decide.  Just tear them out and then I won't have to do this anymore.  Just a little scratch.  It won’t hurt much in my dreams.  A little pop and I’m done!  A manic, cheerful little hum hovers in my throat, and the gentle pressure of my short nails cuts into the paper-thin skin of my eyelids.  The pain is almost a relief.

But a whisper of sound, so soft it’s the flutter of butterfly wings, interrupts me.  I feel it, strange and shivering on my skin, like phantom fingers trailing, and the spider-light sensation forces my hands down, my eyes to open.

“Kai?”  There is so much hope in three little letters that I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Hideo is at the top of the steps next to Jonah and Gemma and Walker, none of whom have stepped forward.

“Hideo?”  It’s all I can force out through my tight throat, but it hits him like a wrecking ball.  At the sound of my raw, rough voice, the color drains from his face and his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses.

Purple Rain

Jonah

She’s staring at me as though she doesn’t know me, as if she doesn’t recognize me, and all I can think is, maybe it’s my hair.  Raising a shaking hand to my head, I rub my shaved scalp lightly and can’t stop the stupid words from tumbling out.  “I lost it fighting,” I say, as though that’s an explanation.  As though I haven’t dreamed of the things I would say to her if I ever saw her again, planned every word like a poem for her.

I want to fold in on myself, to apologize a thousand times, when she whispers, “So did I.”

It’s an arrow straight to my heart.  I open my mouth to say something, anything else, but her head tilts at an odd angle, as though she’s listening to someone, and then she smiles, just a little twist of her lips, and it’s… it’s scary and not like Kai at all.  I shoot a quick, worried look at Walker, but he’s unmoving, carved marble, forcing shallow, stuttering breaths in and out of his lungs.  Walker looks like he’s about to come apart at the seams.  An unsettling little hum of happiness distracts me, and I turn back to Kai, who is staring down at her curled fingers with a considering look.  Nodding, she closes her eyes and, still humming, raises them and presses her nails against her eyelids.  Nausea churns in my stomach, and I’m about to step forward to do… I don’t know, but something, when she stops dead and opens her eyes, focusing just behind me.

“Kai?”  It’s Hideo, and it’s not Hideo, because I have never, in all our time together, heard him sound like that.  Like his skin has been peeled from his body, leaving nothing but muscle and sinew exposed to the wind.  

“Hideo?”  It’s Kai, and it’s not Kai, something new and bloody in her voice, but I don’t have time to think about it because, at the sound of his name on her lips, Deo’s face drains completely of color, and he collapses in a heap.  Everything slows down and speeds up all at one – Walker shouts in alarm, finally breaking out of his trance, and Maddox lunges forward, moving more quickly than I’ve ever seen him move, pushing Gemma aside and diving to prevent Deo’s head from crashing into the stone steps.  He ends up sprawled on the stairs, body twisted and scraped, cushioning Deo’s paper-pale face on his arm, millimeters from the jagged edge.  Gemma tumbles forward, propelled by Maddox’s unintentional shove, and grabs onto Kai to prevent herself from falling.

And Kai – this ghost of Kai, this darker shadow of her – freezes, corpse still.  She stops completely as soon as Gemma touches her; no rise and fall of her chest, no tremble of movement, no small step or reaction.  She is like a painting, eyes wide and wild, the whites showing completely around blown-out black, mouth open in a wide, world-swallowing silent scream.  Panic is clear in every sharp, hollow line of her face, every hair standing on end on her skin, every inch of her faded, unfamiliar body.  It’s as though everything inside her has shut down completely, refusing to work, as though she’s been electrified and her heart has stopped, and I’m suddenly scared in a way I have never been before in my life.  The fear is a live wire sparking through me, jumping to Gemma, who has steadied herself and is looking up at Kai’s frozen face in dawning horror.

“Kai?” she whispers, voice careful and shaking.  

Deo’s lids tremble at the word and slowly open, confusion replaced quickly with laser focus, two burning lights in a bone-pale face.

Kai doesn’t speak, doesn’t respond, doesn’t breathe.

Gemms reaches out slowly, placing one tiny hand on Kai’s sunken cheek, trying to get her attention.  “Kai?” she asks again, this time more firmly, trying, I think, to reach Kailani, wherever she’s gone, deep in the recesses of her mind, and my stomach clenches at her expression as slowly, slowly Kai drags her eyes to focus on Gemma.  She looks as though she’s been pulled through the veil separating the worlds, as though we’re demons in hell who have drained her of life and are preparing to feed on whatever is left.  

“No…” she whispers, a keening sort of moan catching in her throat. “No no no no no–”  Her hands drift up to cover her face and then jerk away, as though yanked sharply by unseen puppet strings.  “Nononono.”  Taking one step back, and then another and another, Kai stumbles away from us, eyes darting from person to person in clear suspicion and mistrust.  Her hands float up again, and this time her palms press against her lids, fingers curved, digging into her forehead and temples.  Her face contorts in pain, and I can feel my heart vibrating in my chest as though it’s on the edge of exploding, erupting from behind my bones at the sheer terror carved in every line of her face.

“Kailani…” I can’t help calling to her, the word desperate and terrible, an earthquake of emotion shaking its syllables.

“NononoNO!”  And now she’s screaming, dragging her nails down her skin, her cry a raptor’s shriek, a broken-winged bird fighting to stay aloft.  “Get out!!!  GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

I don’t understand a thing that’s happening, not a single thing, and my panic is mirrored on Walker’s fracturing face, in Maddox’s clenched jaw, in Gemma’s terrified eyes, and in Hideo’s stricken expression.

“None of this is right!  You shouldn’t be here!  You shouldn’t be here!”  She crumbles to the ground, rocking back and forth, and if I didn’t know in my marrow that this is Kai, I would think she was a changeling, that while she was gone, someone had somehow taken her soul-light and replaced it with someone else’s.  “You’re not safe!  You’re not safe!”

The sound of heavy feet on gravel breaks through her cries.  

Surging to her feet, instantly on defense, she swivels between the group of us hovering uncertainly on the steps and the tall, wary man who slows his approach from around the corner of the enormous house.  Every inch of her body is poised to fight, trembling in anticipation of a coming attack.  Even at this distance I can see how his whiskey eyes widen, taking in the strange scene before him.  Can tell how hard he’s trying to force himself to be calm, how it is taking everything inside him to stay, still and soothing, by the side of the building until she can focus on him.  Her nostrils are flaring, like a wild animal being approached by hunters, her head swinging between the stairs and the man, back and forth, back and forth.  Deo and Madds are still sitting on the steps, Walker beside them, Gemma and I twin statues just in front on the stone path.  And Kai, our beautiful, broken girl, is trapped, frantic, between us.

The silence is unnatural and viscous.  No one moves.  I don’t know if a minute passes, or an hour, before Lachy takes a deep breath, audible even over the expanse between us, and speaks.

“Well.”  His voice is hoarse, raspy, and he clears his throat before trying again.  “Well.”

“Lachy?”  Kai is thousands of splinters of glass, crimson shards of pain.  “You too?  They cut all the strings…” and the sob in her voice is so hopeless, so lost, that all the pieces inside me break and rearrange to make room for a new sorrow born in this moment.  A sadness unlike anything I’ve ever known, for things lost that can never be recovered, for burn scars across a landscape that can never be regrown.  But my heart creates space, shoving aside older, forgotten hurts and bruises, so that when she is ready, when she is able, there is a place waiting for her and any shadows that have been sewn to her shoulders.  Because, seeing her face, hearing her voice, I know without a doubt that whatever version of herself she brings to me, I will welcome it with ready arms.  And if my life is spent waiting, I have done harder things for less reward.

Lachy hasn’t answered Kai, his throat working frantically, eyes closing briefly, desperately trying to steady himself before saying anything.

“They cut all the strings!” she says again, and her eyes well up, spilling over.  “If you’re here, and Gemma… but they got it all wrong, and I don’t understand anything!” and she sinks back down to the ground, body limp.

He nods, nods, as though he understands any of this, and settles down on his heels to be at eye level with her, without moving forward.  “What… what did they get wrong?” he replies, and of all the questions I thought he’d ask, that wasn’t one of them.

“Deo passed out when he saw me,” she says, almost accusingly, and I feel sick to my stomach for him, seeing him flinch at her words, even if they make no sense.  She doesn’t notice his reaction, because her wary gaze is leveled on Lachlainn.  “So.  That’s one thing.  Actually–” and oddly, as she focuses on answering, she calms down, her tone becoming thoughtful and almost derisive.  “That would totally be Dream Deo.  Like, full-scale emotional reaction to seeing me?  Dream D.  Can you imagine Real Deo responding like that?  That’s some romance-novel shit.  Ha!”  

The bark of laughter jolts us all in surprise, her ricocheting emotions so unlike her that none of us know how to respond.  Kai whips around tiger-quick, suddenly bright with anger, and points a triumphant finger first at Maddox and then at Deo.  “Oh, you sneaky freaking snook!  I get it!  You brought in another one, right?  You were all ‘don’t worry, I won’t change anything, it’s your brain’, and now you two are sprawled out in this, like, crazy inviting man-pile of muscle… Tricky, tricky.  You crafty little cupcake.  I told you, if you’re doing pirates and damsels bullshit, I at least deserve some tight pants and unlaced shirts, asshole!”  Shaking her head, she presses her lips tightly together, clear disappointment thick in her voice.  “I can’t believe I let you convince me to leave my rhinos behind.”  She sounds absolutely disgusted with herself.  “And you!”  Narrowing her gaze at Hideo, she exhales sharply, then pauses and raises a considering eyebrow.  “Well.  Hmm.  Actually, I’m not too mad.”  

Kai’s face softens into a sort of reluctant acceptance, and she cocks her head, staring at Deo for a long moment.  He locks eyes with her, unwavering, like he’s waiting for the executioner’s blade or a last-minute reprieve and isn’t sure which is coming.  She finally nods, and the shadow of a smile flashes across her face.  “Okay D.  Your reaction to seeing me was pretty good.  Overcome with emotion is definitely a Dream Deo thing.  So… I’ll take it.  Leather next time, but since you’re not striding across a field, we’re okay.”  

Nodding to herself, she switches her considering gaze to Walker, who hasn’t spoken this entire time, and only says, “Smashable, Walker?  SMASHABLE?”  

Walker holds up his hands in a mea culpa movement, looking only slightly abashed.  “I stand behind what I said,” he mumbles, and I’ve never wanted to hug the dude so badly in my life, because he seems so fucking lost.  No one knows what the safe play is here, and I can tell he’s desperate not to misstep, but what that actually means, none of us know.

Kai bites her lip thoughtfully, then frowns.  And it’s scary as hell when she warns herself darkly, “That’s not a Dream Walker thing.  That’s a Walker Walker thing,” because it sounds like she’s having a conversation that we’re only hearing half of.  There’s a beat, maybe two, and all at once the anger drains from her in an instant, leaving an anxious, hand-wringing girl in its wake.  The changes in her are so rapid it makes me nauseous.  “I don’t know what to do.  Put you back?  But what if you aren’t Real Walker.  Then I’ve downloaded the virus into the computer.”  Her brow creases, her fingers clasped tight enough that they’re white.  “I don’t know what to do…  Dream Maddox.  Dream Deo.  Real Gemms.  Real Walker.  Nightmare Jonah.  And… well, I don’t know about you yet, Lachlainn…”  Kai’s voice trails off into a mumble, and her breathing shallows into shivering pants.  “Shouldn’t be mixed up like this… what is happening…”

“Suge–”  I’m not used to hearing our gentle giant sound so untethered and realize that, even in my panic, I somehow subconsciously thought that when Lachy arrived, he’d have answers, or a direction to go.  Because he always does.  He always knows how to step forward, even when the rest of us are stuck.  Instead, we’re all in the same place, watching this wildling who has replaced the woman who has been our reason for breathing for six months.  And she thinks I’m a nightmare.  I feel sick to my stomach.  

Lachy continues, voice curiously unsteady in the loud quiet.  “Ah, would it help if you tried feel–”  He’s interrupted by a kind of coughing shout from Maddox, who surges to his feet, hands up toward Kai in a placating motion.  

“Feel..ing… calm… for a second.  Just back up from us to where you feel safe and okay, is what Lachlainn is trying to say.  Give yourself space.  We’ll stay here.  Just… um…”  Maddox’s voice drifts off as Kai backs up one, two, three slow steps, stumbling slightly, brow creased in pain and jaw tight.   Lachy shoots Maddox a narrow-eyed look, and Madds responds with a quick, enigmatic shake of his head.  It feels like every choice, every word in this strange little tableau is a minefield, like a single stumble will cause the entire thing to explode into ash and dust.  And I’m paralyzed with doubt about what to do, what to say, how to respond.  

Next to me, there’s a sharp little burst of an exhale, and I’m pushed gently out of the way as Gemma comes to a sudden decision.

“YOU stay there,” she commands, pointing her finger at all of us, then turns back to Kai, who has paused.  “But I’m coming to sit with you, girl.  Okay?  Is that okay?  I’m coming now.  I won’t touch you.  But I am coming to sit with you.  I don’t want you...”  Her throat is tight with tears that she’s clearly trying to battle through and shove down.  “You shouldn’t be alone, okay?”  Her entire body is poised to walk forward, but she waits until Kai responds.

“I… your hair… too purple…”  Kai’s trembling, a shaking, dark longing in her words, and I’m reminded violently of the night I stood outside the fight ring, having just beaten five men badly enough that an ambulance was called, and my fists were still flexing for more blood, for more broken bones, for more pain.

“My hair?”  Gemma sounds torn, but when Kai nods, she squares her shoulders, determination clear in every muscle.  “Okay.  My hair, right?  Could I sit next to you if my hair weren’t purple?”

Kai’s eyes dart between all of us, then focus back on Gemma.   “I… I think so?  You’re usually safe.”

Gemms sighs and shrugs.  “Good enough.  Well, shit.  You pull off the look, and I was due for a change anyway.  Walker?  Can I have your toolbox please?”  Walker looks poleaxed, and Gemma frowns at him in frustration, then repeats slowly, like she’s speaking to a toddler, “Your toolbox.  Because you were coming out to help Lachy fix the car?”  Pointing to his feet, she snaps, “Walker!  Tools!”

Walker shakes himself a little, grabs the small bag by his shoes, and brings it to Gemm, who opens it, rifles through it, and finds what she’s looking for with a rueful twist of her lips.  “Okay, Kai.  You don’t make things easy!  How short, girl?”

Kai tilts her head, confused until Gemma pauses before carefully pulling out a pair of sharp, metal shears.  “These okay?” she asks Kai hesitantly, gently motioning towards Kai’s head.  “Do they bother you?  With bad… um… memories?”  

Kai reflexively lifts a hand to her scalp, then jerks it back down.  “Razors,” is all she manages, but it’s enough for Gemma, who nods and in one, swift slice, cuts a massive hunk of vibrant, violet hair from her head.  

Shouting in alarm, Kai leans forward on her feet, hands outstretched, then rocks back again, indecision written in every line of her trembling frame.  “Gemm!  No!  You love your hair!”  

Gemma pauses, watching loose strands drift away in the wind, and shrugs.  “Kai.  Can I come sit with you if I have purple hair?”  

And Kai, poor, shivering Kai, tries so hard, so hard, to say “yes”.  I can see the word form on her lips, can see her try to force it out as her hands play with a funny little belt and pouch tied around her waist.  But she can’t.  So she doesn’t answer at all, and Gemma cuts another chunk of hair.  

“That’s what I thought.  It’s fine.  I don’t love my hair.  I like it.  I love my sister.  Plus, I’ve had this style for like, a million years.  Except for the brief, ill-advised period that we don’t talk about.”  She’s chatting as though we’re sitting around a salon, all having coffee and chilling, and the only thing that betrays her are her white fingers, clenched around the handles of the scissors in a death grip.  

There’s silence for a second, then – and it makes me want to cry – Kai responds in a voice I recognize, as though, for just a second, some part of her that used to exist pushed its way to the surface, to breathe for just a moment.  “You don’t talk about it…”  She’s hesitant, words cautiously teasing, but Gemma replies by rote, to an argument they’ve clearly had a hundred thousand times. 

“WE don’t talk about Bruuuuno…” she sings, horribly off-key, and Kai laughs a little.  

The sound shatters me. 

Hot Lemon Water

Kai

“You don’t talk about Bruno,” I can’t help replying, laughter choking me, carving painful ribbons of emotion into my heart, as Gemma waves the scissors carelessly close to her face.

“Why would I ever talk about Bruno?” she frowns, cutting another bunch of purple from her head.  “We agreed after that fiasco–”

“You agreed–”  The words are pulled from me.  I can’t remember how many times we’ve had this conversation, but it’s a lot.  “He was a pretentious asshole who convinced you to dye your hair blonde and wear pearls, Gemms.  Pink lipstick?  Remember?  And worse–”

“La-la-la, I’m not listening!”  Gemma sings loudly, trying to drown me out as she flips her head forward, snipping off any purple she can see, tiny strands of hair floating away in the wind.

“WORSE,” I raise my voice, talking over her, and she grins at me briefly from beneath the rapidly shortening waterfall of hair over her face, tilting her head so she can see me.  “WORSE, he convinced you for a MONTH that coffee is a carcinogenic, and you started drinking–”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH, REED!” she yells back, laughing and cutting, and I have to shout to complete our back and forth.

“WATER!  HOT LEMON WATER EVERY MORNING!  FOR A MAN NAMED BRUNO!”

The entire driveway is silent as my words fade away, and Gemma straightens with a self-satisfied smirk, pursing her lips thoughtfully, running a hand through the choppy lengths on her head.  “Lucky I had so much root showing,” she says absentmindedly.  “I was due for a touch-up right before we came here, but Curl Up and Dye stopped selling Midnight Violet… said it was a low seller?  And replaced it with some cheap stuff, so I was going to order some online, but I got distracted because on my way home from the salon I heard from someone that the old firehouse in Vashon is being sold and I thought maybe it would be an amazing art gallery and if I could buy it I would, because remember when we said that if I opened that then you would do a little coffee shop in the front and–”  

She’s speaking a mile a minute, taking slow, cautious steps toward me, and pauses a few feet away.  “Did I get it all?” she asks softly, so quietly the men on the steps can’t hear her, and I force myself to look at her head.  Most of it’s gone, leaving behind maybe two or three inches of hair.  

“There’s… um…” I swallow convulsively, then force myself to continue.  “There’s a little bit still in the back, but it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.  I’ll fix it – I… I just can’t reach it.  Do you want me to have one of the guys do it?  Or do you want to?”  She’s being so careful, so very, very careful, watching me through wary eyes, making sure that everything she does is okay with me before she moves.

“Who’s safe?” I ask, words swallowed so quickly they’re barely sound at all, and she bites her lower lip, looking perilously close to tears before she forces her expression back to neutral.  

“Trick question?  Who do you think is safe?  This is about you, girl.”

I shrug.  “No one?  Maybe you?”

“Okay.  Then can you finish it so I can sit with you?”

“I can try…” I reply.  And I want to.  I really do.  But I can’t force my hands to move, and we’re stuck in a sickening purgatory, both of us desperate to cross over, neither of us able to.

A car engine revs in the distance, breaking into our frozen tableau, both of our heads jerking around to watch a lurching, bumping Ford Focus drive up the long road to the house, kicking up dust as it slows its approach.  From behind me, Walker, surprised, murmurs to Hideo, “What the fuck?” but I can’t hear Deo’s reply as I watch people tumbling from the open doors like a clown car, large bodies unfolding from the backseat, the low rumble of male voices drowning out the conversation behind me.

And then, oh gods, and then a tiny, black-haired, angry woman who I recognize even with the horrible dye job and bruised lump on her forehead pushes through their curving, protective bodies. 

“For the love of – you can see all of them clearly.  Just back u… Kai.  KAI?”  She freezes, my name half a cry, half a question, gaze taking in the entire scene – men standing awkwardly on the stairs, Gemma hovering carefully in front of me, purple hair scattered all over the ground.  “Ah.  Okay.  Right.”  Walking purposefully over, ignoring the shouts of protest behind her, she doesn’t stop until she’s right beside Gemms.  “Purple?” is all she says, and Gemma nods stupidly.  “Do you want me to just touch up the rest?”  

Taking the scissors from Gemma’s unresisting hands, she snips a few bits from the back before humming under her breath.  “All done.  Very cute.  Gemma, right?  Very Audrey Hepburn.  You good, Kai?”

“I don’t know,” I reply stupidly.   “I’m trying to figure out what’s real anymore.”

Maela, beautiful, brilliant, broken Maela nods seriously, in pure, simple understanding.  “I know,” she says softly.  “Me too.  But we’ll get there.”  

Taking one of my hands gently in her own tiny one, she locks our fingers together and offers a tentative smile my way.  “Ten cats.  Squirrels.  Never-ending coffee.  A tiny cottage.  And peace,” she whispers, and I nod.

“And peace…” I echo, letting myself be pulled forward by her, then stop.  Taking a deep breath I turn around and hold a shaking hand out to Gemma, who lights up like a Christmas tree at the offer, grabbing it firmly, like I’m going to disappear if she doesn’t hold it tightly enough.  

“Okay,” I whisper to myself, a sister on either side of me, all three of us clinging together.  “Okay.  Let’s go.”

Cats and Squirrels

Maela

There'd been an argument when we'd gotten to the car, a Ford Focus which had seen better days.  None of the guys wanted to drive; they all wanted to sit next to me.  Emlyn announced that he’d driven all the way from London, and it was someone else’s turn.  Kavi retorted that, funny, previously they couldn’t pry his hands off the wheel.  Seef held up his arm and announced he hadn’t put on his prosthetic.  And Jorge said he thought he’d left his license at home; at any rate, he couldn’t find it.  I ended up in the backseat between Emlyn and Jorge, with Kavi driving and Seef grumbling the whole way in the passenger seat.  My four knights-errant.

We’d passed slopes brilliant with foxglove, the magenta flowers so bright they dazzled my eyes; through forests of beech and sycamore and alder; over old, stone bridges buttressed by ferns.  And now here we are Plas Gelltydd, which Emlyn says means something like “the house on the wooded hill”.  It’s in Snowdonia National Park, 823 square miles of mountain ranges and glacial lakes, of lichen-sheathed rocks and tumbling rivers, of mists and oak and dark skies.  Elizabeth, surely, will be hard-pressed to find us there, and if she does, well, there will be a reckoning.

Madness and truth have once again changed places, but Kailani’s hand is in mine.  We are twin halves of a soul, conceived in confusion and pain.  But now… now we have a chance at life anew. 

We stand fast together for a minute, savoring the simple act giving and receiving comfort, then I nod towards the house.  “I know we always say coffee, but do you know, I could murder a cup of tea.”

Kai’s friend grins.  “How about it, Kai?  A nice cup of green tea?”

Kai snorts, fighting to stay with us.  “It tastes like grass!” 

I’ve had 24 hours to get used to the guys’ reappearance; Kai, I am guessing, has only just been reunited with her friends.  I think she’s taking it well.  I fainted, after all.  If this is a waking dream, it’s the longest I’ve ever had.  Except, of course, for the coma, a little voice pipes up.  Which wasn’t a coma, I remind myself sternly.  I see; I hear; I smell; I taste; I touch.   

I gesture towards the house.  “Shall we?”  We make our way slowly to the steps, the men parting for us like the Red Sea; they’re looking on dumbly, as if afraid to break the spell.  We push open the heavy door and step into a bright entrance hall.  “Oh, Emlyn,” I sigh.  “A ‘house’?  Really?”  

I'm guessing it was once a hunting lodge, to which room after room had been added over the years.  The primrose-yellow walls of the hall are festooned with a rather tasteless collection of stags heads, set between portraits, I am guessing, of their killers. I turn to Kai’s friend.  “I don’t suppose there’s anything so mundane as a kitchen around here?  Or do we have to ring for a butler?”

Her lips quirk.  “I think all the servants have been sent away.  Everything was covered in dust sheets when we arrived.  Here, the kitchen’s this way.”  She gestures towards a marble staircase.  Noting my expression, she nods, “Yeah, we have to go up to go down.”

“Figures.”  Pulling an unresisting Kai along, we go up the short flight of stairs to a landing, then along a hallway to another, smaller, and considerably more plain, staircase, this one going down.  Kai is vibrating.  She doesn’t like stairs anymore, especially not ones that descend.  “What is it with stately homes and kitchens in the basement?” I mutter.

The kitchen must date from the Victorian era.  There’s a fireplace, a scullery sink, a long, wooden table, and a cast-iron range but also, thankfully, an electric kettle and a refrigerator.

“Real tea for everyone?” Gemma asks.

Kailani and I nod as all nine men file in.

“Well, this is cozy,” Gemma raises an eyebrow.  “I’ll put on a bigger pot.”

The tall one who looks like a woodsman rumbles, “I think we also have some cookies.  Hobnobs?  They’re pretty good.”  He opens a cupboard and takes out a pack, setting it on the table.

My hand snakes out.  I was too full for a sticky bun earlier, and I haven’t had anything sweet since that aborted bite of the chocolate petit-four, which doesn’t count as Dye-job made me choke on it, and before that the chocolate croissant all those weeks ago.  I’d prefer something with chocolate now too, but I’ll take a disc of buttery oats in golden syrup.

“Well now,” the tall one says.

“Well,” Emlyn nods shortly.

My eyes dart round the room, landing on Kailani.  She looks like a feral cat, wary and ready to claw her way to freedom at a moment’s notice.  I slide her a Hobnob.  We need to stick together.  Of the two of us, I’m more rational, at least right now; I’ve had more time to adjust, and it’s my job to keep us safe.

Gemma sets a teapot that’s almost too big for her to carry onto the table.  “How many cups do we need?” She starts counting.  “Twelve?  Yo, Hideo, twelve cups!”  The quiet, dark-eyed one gives a start but moves to help her.

“Milk?  Sugar?” Gemma asks, a pixie-haired hostess with the mostess.

It’s the weirdest tea-party I’ve ever attended.  Come to think of it, it’s the only tea-party I’ve ever attended.  And it’s weird.  I half-expect someone to come in singing, “twinkle, twinkle, little bat”.  And then I’d know for sure that I was quite, quite mad. 

Jorge gives my shoulder a squeeze, and I smile up at him.

“I take it you’re Lachlainn?” Emlyn asks.  The tall one nods as Gemma begins to pour.  

“And I’m Gemma.  Kai’s… sister.”  Her hand shakes on the last, causing the tea to slop over the table, and Kai trembles.  I slide her another Hobnob.

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” Seef announces, somewhat superfluously, I feel.

The room is silent.  Half of us are politely sipping tea, and the other half, staring at the table.

“Do you think it will rain?”  That’s what you do at tea-parties, isn’t it? Talk about the weather?

“Come again, princess?”  Seef glances at me, reading something in my expression.  “Nah, you’re right.  Fuck this.  Maddox, any trouble?”

The Viking shakes his head.  “No, we were out and on our way before the place opened.  No one followed us.”

Kai leans over.  “I wanted to bring Dipsy and Doodle, but Dream Maddox said they wouldn’t fit.”

“Dipsy and–”

“Doodle,” she nods.  “My rhinos.”

“Oh.”  My mind flashes back to the powerful forms.  “I saw them.”

She peers suspiciously at me.  “You saw them?”

I give a little shrug.  “Turns out.  I can.”

Her dark gaze searches mine, and I try to project everything I’m feeling: we’re OK now; we’re together again; we’re going to make it.  “It was real,” I whisper.  “The Cotswold Wildlife Park and Gardens.  Bizarre, right?” I make a funny face.  “But cool.  Dipsy and Doodle were real.” 

Her face crumples.  “Mae, you’re not thinking straight.” 

I grab her hands in reply.  “Let’s go find our room.  Okay?  Gemma?”

The men stop talking when I jump up.  “Can you show us our room?”  Everything’s too much.  There are too many voices, too many bodies, too many revolutions of Fortune’s wheel, and all of a sudden I’m desperately tired.  I need some time to rest, to think, a quiet place where it’s just me and Kai.  This… all this is too intense, and I can feel my mind starting to fray, homespun threads unraveling at the edges.  I think I’ve overestimated my capacity for adaptation.

Gemma leads the way back to the landing and up the marble stairs again, the men trailing after us.  I want to tell them to go away and give us some space, but I’m afraid, if I do, I may never see them again.  So I stay silent.

Safe as Houses

Lachy

Kai’s curled up tight across the massive kitchen table, wary and cautious, eyes flicking this way and that like she’s waiting for an attack but isn’t sure which direction it’s coming from.  Her jaw is clenched tight enough to break rocks, muscles quivering in tension, and I’m reminded suddenly of an injured red-tailed hawk I found near the cabin last summer.  Its shoulder was shattered, dragging and bloody by its side, and its eyes were wide and wild, but it still screamed when I tried to approach it, flashing its razor-sharp beak and flexing its talons.  Kai’s that hawk, injured but dangerous, breath shallow, sizing us up through an avalanche of suspicion.

The little, black-haired woman beside her slips her a Hobnob surreptitiously, movements tight and controlled, like they’re used to passing food without trying to be seen.  She clearly feels my eyes on her and stiffens imperceptibly before forcibly relaxing, shooting me a wary look. The way she angles her body, the straightening of her shoulders – she’s barely keeping it together, but even so, makes sure Kai is slightly behind her, like a mother hen protecting her chick from the foxes.  

Kai’s trembling, and an imperceptible look flashes across Maela’s face.  “Do you think it will rain?”

One of the men I don’t know frowns, then turns to Maddox and says something, but I’m focused on Kai and the way her lips twist at Maela’s words, before she leans forward and murmurs something quietly.  Maela turns to her, clearly confused, before saying something back, first a question, then, more firmly, something that makes Kai shake her head in denial, then concern.

“Mae, you’re not thinking straight…”

Maela sighs, then surges to her feet in a sudden movement and grabs Kai’s thin, pale hands.  “Let’s go find our room.  Okay?  Gemma?”

The men stop talking as she jumps up.  “Can you show us our room?” she repeats, and Gemma nods, leading them out of the kitchen, ignoring the murmured protests from around the table.  We’re in a strange place, everything a burst of decisive action or complete uncertainty, nothing measured or careful, and most of us clearly don’t know if we’re leading or following at the moment.  Nothing, nothing about the past hour or so has been anything close to any vague expectations we may have had, and the ropes are wearing thin; I can tell Deo and Jonah are fraying at the edges, pulling apart at the seams, and can barely look at Walker, who is radiating unending amounts of grief so strong they’re coming in drowning waves.  He hasn’t looked up from where his hands are wrapped so tightly around a burning mug of tea that I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.  His palms are red when he stands and follows along with the rest of the group.

“We okay, brothers?” I murmur quietly as we follow the girls, and the looks I get in return are… well.  We’re clearly not okay.  Not at all.  Only Maddox stays behind, as though he’s unsure where he should be, clearing the dishes and turning on an ancient coffee machine that has seen better days.

“I’ll follow on,” he says shortly, his jaw clenched, face tight as he looks between Walker, who is studiously ignoring him, and Kai, who hasn’t really looked at any of us since we came inside.  Nodding in response, I trail after the group.

It’s an old house with a strange layout, full of unexpected steps down and sharp corners, and it’s interesting and gut-wrenching watching the way Kai and Maela move together, trailing behind Gemma in shifting, purposeful patterns.  Gemma goes first on any stairs, looking over her shoulder carefully to make sure Kai is behind her.  Kai pushes ahead at corners, nodding to Maela, who follows less certainly.  When we pass the library, Maela freezes full stop before Kai grabs her hand, gently pulling her past the open door.   But it’s when we get to the bedrooms that things really fall apart.  

We’ve been staying in a far back corner-wing of the house, one facing away from the front drive, the road, the places where anyone passing for any reason wouldn’t be able to see evidence of life in this shuttered place.  All of our rooms face thick woods at the back of the home, followed only by cliffs and ocean.  The rooms in this section of the house are smaller; I think they must have been servants’ quarters.  Maybe they still are – they weren’t as carefully covered in dust sheets, weren’t as tightly packed up and put away.  Little bedside lamps with funny fringes are still plugged into the outlets in each room, and all the lights work.  Gas lines and water, too.  So while no one is here on an ongoing basis, there has to be some sort of caretaker who floats in and out occasionally, despite its hollowed out feel.

The rooms are tight and bare-boned.  Each has a small table, a dresser, and a tiny bed.  After the first night I know at least Walker and myself pulled the mattresses off and laid them on the floor instead of forcing our feet to hang over the edge, then moved the plain, metal frames carefully to an unused room down the long, narrow hallway.  The utilitarian furniture in this area is a stark contrast to the rest of the house’s gleaming, carved wood and polished marble.  Even the corridor is thinner, plain pine floors and unadorned walls closing in on either side, the class division clear in British architecture.  Still, all the rooms are clean and comfortable, nearly exact mirrors of each other on either side of the hall.  

“There are a couple rooms left in this area, and then some downstairs as well,” Gemma murmurs quietly, I think more to fill the space than anything else.  “Walker and Jonah are down a flight, but Deo, Lachy, and I are up here.  So, there’s this room, and then two at the other end that are available, or I think five more on the same level as Walker and Jonah.  They’re all basically the same, so wherever you want… I’m just two doors down from this one.”  She directs the last sentence towards Kai.

Gemma is still speaking when she gets to the first empty room and motions inside.  But both Maela and Kai freeze after looking through the door, and neither moves.  There are worlds of words in their silent exchange as they lock eyes, and together, as one, shake their heads.  

“No.”  That from Kai… no longer a trembling Kai, not the shaking and broken girl from the last hour.  This is someone different – like her old self in some ways, someone with claws and teeth.  “This won’t work.”  

Maela is the one folded up now, small hand disappearing in Kai’s.  

One of Maela’s group steps forward cautiously, taking in the interaction through cool, grey eyes, and we all shift to make room for him.  It’s a push to have three or four people in the hallway, let alone the crowd we’ve become.  

“What is the issue?”  It’s not unkind, just careful, considering.

Kai raises a single brow in response.  “To start, there’s only one bed.”

The man nods.  “We can fix that.  Not tonight, but tomorrow we can figure things out.  You both… of course you’d be more comfortable having someone with you.”

They exchange looks again and sigh in unison before Kai motions between herself and Maela.  “To be clear.  We room together.”

“Maela, surely–”  The Spanish man steps forward, interrupting Kai, and Maela tightens her grasp on Kai’s fingers.

“We room together,” she repeats, echoing Kai and glancing over her shoulder into the room nervously. 

Kai croons a small, “It’s okay, it’s okay, we’ll figure it out,” under her breath, and Maela straightens.  For the life of me I can’t figure out the shifting sands beneath their feet; they ebb and flow so quickly it’s impossible to know what is happening.

“Look,  I’m sorry the rooms aren’t up to standard – I know they’re poky – but you can’t see them from the road, so staying back here is safer.  There’s not enough time to sort this out now, not with you falling asleep standing up, Maela.  We’ll fix it tomorrow, I promise, but you’re dead on your feet.”

“I said no.”  There’s blood in Kai’s bite now, the tiny hairs on her arms standing up, and Maela leans against her side.  

“She’s exhausted–” one of Maela’s men is protesting, but Kai cuts him off sharply.  

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she snaps disdainfully.  “Exhausted.”  Kai rolls her eyes.  “You have no fucking idea what that means.  This room isn’t a place where Maela can sleep.  You think I care about up to standard?”  And suddenly she’s laughing, pulling Maela along with her, both dissolving into dark humor.  

“I’m sorry, Emlyn, really I am,” Maela manages to gasp out.  “But oh my giddy aunt.  Up to standard…”  

“I could fucking care less if it was full of snakes, Emlyn.  But this room isn’t safe for Maela.  Christ on a cracker.”  She sounds incredibly annoyed at having to explain herself, pulling back slightly when Walker pushes through from where he’s been standing unusually silent at the back of the group.

He steps forward hesitantly, then takes a deep breath.   “You’re… you’re both safe here, Kai.  You can… you’re with us now.  You’re safe.”  Walker’s voice, never soothing at the best of times, is pitched to a low croon, still raspy but as calm as he can make it.  There’s too much emotion behind it though, too much panic, too much hope and pain and knife cuts of terror that we’ve found her but haven’t found her all at once.  I know that feeling – it’s an axe blade to my stomach.  

She snorts derisively in response, and Maela smirks at the sound, the expression oddly aggressive on the pale woman’s face.

“Dude.”  The disgust in her tone is hard to hear.  I can’t imagine what it feels like to be on the receiving end of it, and watching my brother’s face collapse pushes me into action.

“Suge…”  I know I sound hollow, cavernous, but nothing is going the way we planned it, and it feels like trying to catch smoke in a bottle.

“Lachlainn?”  It’s amazing how my name in her mouth can sound like breaking bones.  Lachlainn.  Not Lachy.  Not Lachy-Bear, even if I’ve fought against that.  Just… Lachlainn.  My name is a question and a warning that I stupidly choose to ignore.  

Still.  I try.  “You are safe now.  We’ve got you.”

“Oh.  OH!  You’ve got us…”  And suddenly we’re all on edge – not just me and Walker, but the entire group, because there’s venom and vitriol dripping from her bared fangs.  Beside her, Maela straightens, the sharp lines and shadows of her hollow face mimicking Kai’s expression.  “Maela, you hear that, girl?  We’re safe.  They’ve… got… us.  Thank God, because I thought maybe I misunderstood what you were saying.”  She snorts again, and Maela’s lips twist in a way that makes me sick to my stomach.  Kai turns to her, eyes wide and mocking.  Her voice goes high and mincing, almost fluttery.  “Whatever would we do without their help?  However would we have survived over four fucking months without them?”  Her lips twin the twist of Maela’s mouth, sneering. “You know what?  Fuck that.  You know who has us?”  Pointing between herself and Maela rapidly, she turns two middle fingers up at us.  “WE have us.  Mae and me.  That’s who fucking has us.  That’s who got us out of hell.  So you can fuck all the way off, and when you think you’ve reached the end of No Fucks Road, keep walking, son, ‘cause there’s more beyond that ‘No Trespassing’ sign.  You’ve got us?  Really?  Then where were you?  Where were you?  When the unicorns were dripping blood on me?  Where?”  Her voice is shattered glass, sharp shard and crimson pain. “Fuck off,” she says, and it’s so flat and matter of fact it burns. “Mae’s got me.  I’ve got me.  Seven holy hells.”  Maela laughs, more a short bark of bitter sound than anything else, and Kai continues, saccharine sweet, dripping sarcasm.  “Plus, Lachlainn, plus… I don’t even think you’re fucking real.  Soooo… what’cha gonna do about that, then?”

There’s no sound, no response, because… because how can we respond?  What can we say to that?  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  The silence stretches so thin it crackles, hanging between us, no one moving until Maela sways slightly on her feet.  Kai immediately turns and grabs her before looking in the room again.  “Fuck.  Fuck.  Tonight only.  You hear me?  You can make it.”  She doesn’t turn to address us, just focuses on Maela.  “Hey, girl.  I’m only like – fifteen feet down the hallway or something, I think.  It’ll be okay.”

“You can have my room,” Gemma offers quietly.  “I’m two doors down.  It's the closest.”  

Kai nods without looking at her, just holding a trembling Maela’s hands.  “Hey.  Hey.  It’s good.”

“The corners though,” Maela whispers incomprehensibly, and Kai glances in the room quickly.  “Easiest thing of a hundred.  Not a problem.  You know I got better at them.  I’ll fix it.  You just get yourself ready for bed.  And we’ll figure this out in the morning, wherever we wake up.  Okay?”

Maela sighs.  “We’re going to wake up here, Kai.”  

Kai shrugs in response.  “Who knows.  I tried to pet a bumble bee, and it stung me, so I’m not convinced.”  Turning to face us, she runs her eyes over each of our faces briefly before stopping on the original man from Maela’s team.

“Get that fucking clock out of her room before she goes to bed.  You understand?  And fix the sheets.  She can’t sleep without hospital corners.  Gemms?  Can you show us the loo?” 

Maela offers a strained laugh at the word, and Kai forcibly grins back, dark eyes flashing.  “I’m soooo elegant, right?  Aw shit, Maela!  You’re fucked.  Points for Kai’s version of reality!”   Triumph fills her voice as, out of nowhere, Maddox silently appears, gliding to her side, a cup of coffee in his hands, and gives it to her like an offering.  She raises a single brow in a knowing way and smirks.  “Dream Maddox.  Exhibit A.”

Maela laughs, and Kai passes the cup to Maela, who takes a sip, a look of sheer bliss flashing across her face and passes it back to Kai, who mimics the motion and sighs, shoulders relaxing slightly.  “Fuck mushrooms,” she says incomprehensibly, “Fuck them to hell,” and Maela grins back.  

“Herbal tea be damned.  Let’s stay in Storybook Land.  I like it here.  Mostly.”

Whiskey and Ham Sandwiches

Jorge

It’s been a long puta of a day.  But I’d take it over any of the 135 that have come before.  We’re all tired, all on edge, but thankful, so damn thankful.  Our Maela is sleeping upstairs.

I doubted my eyes when I saw her in the pub, a black-haired, blue-eyed pequeñita of a thing, sitting alone at a table.  Even now, I have to fight the urge to go and check her bedroom, make sure that she’s really here.  We’ve needed reassurance all day, a brief touch of a leg, an arm, her hair.  We must be driving her crazy.  But none of us can quite believe that we were judged worthy of such a miracle.

I thought I would go to my knees when we chanced upon her, my joy too great to endure.  And then I wanted to rage, when I realized she didn’t know us.  But Maela is still there, behind the terror and confusion.  I feel it.  My gallant girl is trying to find her way back to us.   

I wish I could say the same for Kailani.  She’s lost in a world of pain, and her teammates are destroyed.  Give her time, I want to tell them, but I know how they are feeling.  Last night, not a one of us could speak, and if Kavi had said that “there is no evil that lasts 100 years,” I would have cheerfully strangled him.  But time is what she needs.  What they both need.

“Top up?” he asks, holding out the bottle.

I nod, watching the amber liquid creep up the sides of the glass.  Crystal, of course.  We found the decanter and tumblers on a tray – silver – in the library.  Emlyn’s cousin’s cousin may not use the house, but he left it well stocked.  We’re now sitting in the lounge, though I suppose the term here would be “drawing room”, in comfortable armchairs before the fire.  The night has turned surprisingly cold.

“Thanks.”  I salute him before taking a sip.  Whiskey and sandwiches are an odd combination, but no one felt like cooking after Kailani and Maela went upstairs.  So Lachlainn and Kavi made ham sandwiches.  I wish we could have got Maela to eat something, but she tired so suddenly, as if someone had unplugged her.  The plan was to have a proper dinner and then tuck her into bed, with strict instructions to rest.  The plan!  My lips twist sardonically.  What did we think?  What did we really think – that we’d find Maela and everything would return to as it was?  No.  And yes.  Hope is tenacious.  And sometimes, we only have dreams to sustain us.

Kavi leans forward, a troubled look on his face.  “Do you think,” he asks quietly, “that Maela is taking things a little too well?”

“What do you mean?”  Yes, I do, but I don’t want to hear you say it.

“She’s been in Cole’s hands for months, brainwashed, probably drugged.”

Remembering the talk of “medicines”, I nod.

“Last night, she didn’t think we were real,” he continues.  “But this afternoon, she knew us.  At least, she seemed to.”  He sighs.  “And now, seeing Kailani, seeing how she reacted… and the way she and Maela are together… Maela, our Maela, seemed to disappear.”  Kavi scowls.  “Maybe it would be better to keep them apart, just until they’ve had time to recover.”

I’m already shaking my head.  “They wouldn’t stand for it.  You heard what Kailani said.  They’ve only had each other.”

“I know,” he groans, rubbing a hand over his head, “but… Fuck!”

Which is surely the understatement of a century and totally inadequate for what we are feeling, but the word doesn’t exist to describe it.

“It will take time.”  I hold fast to that credo, reassuring myself as much as him.  “They need time to heal, to come to terms with what has happened to them.  Not just mentally, but physically.  They’ll be going through withdrawal.”  I’m in full counselor mode now.  “Nausea, fatigue, headaches… And then there’s the psychological symptoms: anxiety, confusion, mood swings, aggression.  And that’s just from the drugs, whatever they are.  Then there’s the fact that they’ve been institutionalized and lied to for the past four and a half months, in some sort of elaborate charade designed to break them.  But they haven’t.”  I take another sip of whiskey, holding it, letting it burn my mouth, welcoming the distraction.  “It will take time,” I repeat, firmly.

“Yeah,” Kavi nods slowly, then lets his breath out slowly.  “Where have the others got to?  We should talk, try to figure out what we’re going to do.”

I shrug.  “Seef is probably still with Maddox.  Emlyn was going to check the grounds.  The girl, Gemma?  I think she went to her room.  I don’t know about the others.”  We drifted into little groups after the girls went to bed.  Seef and Maddox drew aside to confer; Emlyn grabbed a sandwich and headed outside, and Kavi and I found a pool table in an oak-paneled room.  Trust Emlyn’s family to have a salón de billar.  I think back to the home I grew up in: three bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a living room under a red-tiled roof.  I’d like to bring Maela there on a visit someday.  It’s nothing special, but it’s home.  And we can visit Segovia.  She’d like that.  I can just imagine her face when she sees the castle; those big blue eyes would light up, and her cheeks would grow slightly pink.  And then she’d drag me to see every room, no doubt reading every single line of every single placard.  I’d like that.

“I mentioned the billiard room to Jonah, so perhaps they’re there.”  

“I guess everything can wait until tomorrow.”  Kavi twists the glass in his hand, looking idly at the lights playing on the cut edges.  “The four of us should speak first anyway.  Lachlainn seems solid, I guess, but…”  He lifts his shoulders.  “I don’t know.  Maela needs peace and quiet.”  

I know what he means.  There’s a weird dynamic going on within the American team.  I thought they got on well, when we met them in December.  But now there seems to be a fracture.  Despair will do that.  

“I think they’re working through some stuff.  But I don’t think they’ll let it affect the girls.  At least, I hope not.”  I look over at Kavi and feel another welling of gratitude, this time not just for Maela.  I’m glad Emlyn came to find me.  And my friend forgave me.

“Look at me, assuming the worst of everyone!”  Kavi gives a short laugh.  “When did I become such a cynic?”

I know when.  When a greedy, power-hungry sociopath reached into our lives and ripped out our heart.

House of Cards

Kailani

A siren's rise and fall of screaming wakes me from murky blackness.  It echoes through the house, an ambulance wail of panic and pain shattering the stillness of the night with broken bones and shattered lungs.  

Flinging my blanket from me, sweaty and clinging from dreams best not remembered, I race down the hall, following the sound like smoke pouring out from Maela’s room.  Throwing open the door I take in the scene in front of me.  Two rumpled and ruffled men stand over her.   

“What’s wrong; what’s wrong?” they’re saying, again and again, but they’re dark shadows that I can’t see, because my eyes are too focused on the pale wraith in the bed, the chaos in her face, eyes wide and empty of thought, mouth wide and full of sound.  I push through the men to stand near her and follow the turn of her head, neck corded in strain, to see, on her small nightstand, a little, black alarm clock, block red numbers blinding in the darkness.  

“No!  NO!”  I scream, loud enough to match Maela, loud enough to shake the room, and leap over her to grab the poison, smashing it against the ground, tearing it from the wall, fingernails bloody and breaking against the offending plastic.  It dies instantly, and Maela’s throat closes when the lights go out, painful whimpers of sound still pushing through, like an injured animal.  “I fucking told you!  I told you!”  The men are making excuses, voices loud and getting louder as the room fills with other, panicked bodies, and it’s too much.  It’s too, too much.  Grabbing her hand, I pull her to the floor with me, under the bed, slithering like snakes, bringing the covers and pillows with us until we’re cocooned away from the rest of the room.

“We’re safe now,” I whisper to her, pulling the blankets over us and around us.  “We’re under the bed and we’re safe.”

I feel Maela nodding, feel her trembling, pressed against my side as we wrap the blankets tighter around us, and then… something nudges at me.  Nudges at my brain, or my heart, or my stomach.  Something like panic, but the panic isn’t mine; the pain isn’t mine; the worry isn’t mine.  I know it isn’t.  I know my own emptiness like I know my face, blank pages, dried rivers, dead tree limbs.  Something foreign is pushing at me, and I can’t breathe.

“Maela?” I say, shivering, shaking, “Maela!”  And she looks at me with petrified eyes, whites wild in the darkness, wondering why, in our safe space, in our quiet place, in our fortress, I am shuddering with earthquakes inside me.  But I am too far gone, the panic pooling in me from somewhere, somewhere, and it pours out of me in a savage howl.  The night has come to get me at last, its claws tearing at my skin, and Maela breaks to pieces beside me, the bean sidhe wail tearing through her throat again.  Locking panicked eyes full of pain and chaos, we realize together that there are no safe places anymore.

TO BE CONTINUED IN THE FOURTH CHAPTER OF 

THE BABYLON PROJECT SERIES,

OLYMPUS BURNING.

Acknowledgements

Oof.  This one took a long time for sure, and we want to thank you for sticking with us and waiting patiently for us to finish.  Kate would just like to say that the tortoise is actually the hero of the story…  But to everyone who is still here and reading, we can’t tell you how much we appreciate you.   As readers first and foremost, Kate and I know how frustrating it can be to wait on a series; we promise you we’re not being slow for the sake of being slow.  As Jeff Goldbloom famously said, “Life finds a way…” but he left off the “... to fuck with all your carefully laid plans…”  Heavily implied it.  Just left it off. 

As always, we want to do a shout-out to our beta team.  Sometimes it felt like we were never going to get done, and there were definitely points when we felt like giving up, but having these women in our corner gently cheering for us and pushing us made all the difference.  Maria Floresguerra, Patti Pace, Colleen Kidder, Irene Tsui, Krista Nacole Carver, Courtney Whetzel, Colleen Ritz, and Katie Janway have functioned as therapists, friends, guides, and cheerleaders, and we want to let each of you know how much we appreciate every inch of you. 

Special thanks to Guy, who designed the beautiful covers you see and all the little “twiddly bits”, as Kate calls them.  The books are so beautiful because of the time and effort you put in, and we appreciate it to the moon.  All the formatting is thanks to this wonderful human being.

Just because we’ve heard it so much, it bears repeating.  Yes, we know both Kate and I have a very “intercontinental” sort of language.  Kate has lived overseas for years, and I lived overseas for years, and we grew up spelling “color”, “colour” and “honor”, “honour” and saying things like “numpty”, even though we lived in the US.  Since we write (somewhat) as we speak, several readers have noticed our English isn’t always completely “American”.  But here’s to the English language in all its wonderful varieties, right?  Still, we’ve done our best to Americanize as much as we can and trust you’ll forgive our occasional “cheque” instead of “check.”

Finally, to anyone who has struggled with their mental health, we want to say that we know how isolating it can be.  That it can be hard to feel worthy and deserving, as it is sometimes much easier to believe the bad than the good.  And that, despite every indication to the contrary, you can feel like a burden to those you love.  Please know that you are valued.  That you are seen.  That your presence here makes a difference.  And that semicolons in life are better than full stops.  

You are not alone; we are grateful to have you in our community.  

If you stretch out a hand, someone will grab it.  

Happy Reading ⁓ Elise and Kate

The American Team’s Tattoo

Babylon Logo

Kronos Logo

Books in this Series

Rise of Kronos

Battered by the whirlwind of other people’s emotions, Kailani Reed hides away from everyone except her close friend – and forbidden crush – Hideo Tanaka, her handler at the Seattle Police Department. Hired for her unique abilities, she just wants to keep her head down and do her job. So when a high-profile case draws the attention of the Feds, Kailani wants out. But the agents running the show have other plans.

Maela Driscoll, a quirky American postgrad in London, spends her days buried in books. To make ends meet, she takes part in a psychoactive drug trial – with unforeseen and dramatic side-effects. After witnessing a brutal murder, she is forcibly recruited by MI5 agent Emlyn Ryder, who has no intention of letting her new and unusual gift slip through his fingers.

When the body count starts to mount on both sides of the Atlantic, MI5 and the Feds realize the cases are linked, through a shadowy organization known as Kronos. But what does Kronos want? And can Maela and Kailani figure it out before it’s too late?

Gates of Tartarus

With their best lead on Kronos eliminated, Babylon is back to square one.  In Seattle, Kailani and her team turn to James Tennireef’s old employer to help snare the slippery lawmaker.  At least gentle giant Lachlainn Baird provides some relief from the dead ends and dysfunctional dynamics.  In London, at MI5, Maela continues to track an elusive criminal she’s only seen from afar.  The task isn’t made any easier when she is thrown into training with ex royal marine Seef Arend, who takes an instant dislike to her.  As tensions increase on both sides of the Atlantic, unexpected shifts begin to occur.  Foes become friends; answers become questions; and chess pieces fall in a game that turns deadly.

About The Authors

Kate Fry is a midwestern-born Britophile who lives in a cottage in Scotland (or, as she and Elise like to say, “Jamie Fraserville”) with her deliciously English husband, their adorably stripy kitten, and three delightful hens.  She loves animals of all kinds, except mosquitos and midges, which is good given that sheep, dogs, deer, pheasants, partridges, buzzards, stoats, foxes, and moles are regular visitors.  She still has wistful aspirations of creating a beautiful garden and turning her home into a stylishly chic yet warm, and always clean, haven but accepts that Rome wasn't built in a day.  She is lucky enough to be able to work from home and spends her weekends writing, reading romance and crime novels, cleaning out the chicken coop, and occasionally weeding.

Elise Fry is ALSO a Midwestern-born Anglo and Hibernophile, and currently lives in SoCal with her smokeshow of a husband, three amazing kiddos, crazy dog, placid tortoise, and surprisingly troublesome fish.  She moves on a regular basis, and has been lucky enough to live all over the world, which is good, because she gets itchy feet staying in one place too long.  Elise is a hot mess of chaos, because she loves creating things, but gets distracted easily, so is constantly surrounded by half-finished projects.  She works from home, and spends her free time drinking coffee, going to the beach, reading, and trucking kids around to various activities.

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