by Meli Raine
Not safe, but this will do.
Each breath I take seems to call the fairies, woodland sprites who drop onto my exposed skin like salve for a wound. One tickles my nose. I open my eyes.
Lily.
It's Lily.
Suddenly, I'm over her and she's my size, growing bigger and bigger, swelling long past her real length, her body growing black with rot, bloated to the size of a car. A ship.
A monster.
I shout her name, call for help, scream in rage, but only one person comes.
Romeo.
Then another.
Wyatt.
And both are pointing guns at the monster.
They shoot, over and over, until I realize the bullets come from their mouths, their eyes, their bodies turned into automatic machine guns.
They are the weapon.
The monster falls, only it's Lily again, so full of bullets that her skin's turned inside out, her head nothing more than a bloody skull with eyes that roll out of her head, bouncing through mid-air, like a fairy.
Landing on the tip of my tongue.
* * *
Waking up in the middle of the night from a nightmare seems to be my new normal.
Having Lily's naked body snuggled up to me is new–although, as days pass, normal as well.
My tongue buzzes with the bitter aftertaste of helplessness.
I need a drink.
We made our way back to the guest bedroom at Jane and Silas's beach house, Lily falling asleep the second her head hit the pillow, me following soon after. I glance at the clock. One-fifty. That means I slept about two hours.
Carefully, I peel myself out of Lily's embrace, regretting the loss of her warm body against mine. I throw on some gym shorts and walk into the kitchen, padding softly.
The fridge holds a carton of milk. I sniff it. I debate.
Silas lives here. I'm sure it's safe. I was eating and drinking for most of the afternoon and early evening, so if someone wanted to poison me again, they'd have done it already.
Opening kitchen cabinets to find a glass, I find the coffee cupboard.
A tin of chocolate-milk mix mocks me.
“Ha ha,” I say to no one.
“What's so funny?”
I spin around in surprise to find myself facing a sleepy Silas, who is standing there in shorts, no shirt, holding a gun he's slowly lowering.
“Jesus Christ, Gentian!”
“You'd do the same if you heard someone prowling around your kitchen at two a.m.”
“But you know I'm spending the night!”
He looks me up and down. “I didn't think you'd leave her alone in bed after last night.” If he winks, I'm killing him.
He doesn't.
“I'm hungry,” I say, breaking eye contact.
“What are you making?”
I snort. “Not chocolate milk.”
Laughter, low and soft, comes out of him. He passes me, placing the gun on the counter while he reaches into the fridge. A tray of cheese and fist-sized chocolate-covered strawberries is in his hand as he walks through the living room and outside onto the deck.
Leaving the slider open as he says softly, “You guys missed out on some great Thai food.” The tone of his voice is teasing, the way you talk to a good friend.
Instead of milk, I pour two glasses of water before I follow.
Hey. He has the good food.
Settling into a seat next to his, I hand off his glass. He points to the tray. I grab a strawberry and let the fruit do its job, the juicy taste making me think of sex with Lily on the beach.
For the next ten minutes, we eat in silence.
“I don't think they want Lily. Or even you,” he says out of the blue, in a manner that wouldn't make sense to anyone but me.
“Really?” I'm beyond skeptical.
“Really. Burning Alice's studio was about destroying something specific. They could have killed us–and you two–if they wanted to. We'd have experienced more events by now.”
“You prepared to call off security for Jane?”
“Of course not.” He leans closer to me. I can smell the dark chocolate on his breath. “But I don't think you have to worry as much. Jane is Harry's daughter. Lily was Romeo's mistake.”
I bristle at anyone calling Lily a mistake, but I get his point. “And me?”
“You know too much about Stateless. But you're not really a threat.”
“Why not?”
“I think they're just going to watch you. If you make the wrong move, you or Lily will be eliminated.”
“You mean lay low? You're telling me to stop searching for Wyatt?”
“I'm telling you what I think.”
The water tastes sour as I drink it all down, considering his words. I try a different tack.
“How do we lay low knowing Harry might be part of the founding group who created the Stateless Project?”
“My girlfriend's father.”
“And maybe my brother's kidnapper.” I don't need to add the part about murdering my parents.
Silence descends, the kind that people like us turn to more often than the average person. We aren't afraid of it. We know the blessing of pure quiet, how the absence of noise is an advantage. A tool.
A gift.
“We can't stop him,” Silas mutters.
“We have to.”
“I mean we.” He motions between the two of us. “We–alone–can't stop Harry.”
“Of course not. But we can be part of the effort to slowly unravel whatever Stateless is doing.”
“That's just it, Duff. We have no clue what they're doing.”
“We know enough to seek certain answers.”
“We don't even know which questions to ask.”
“I know they have my brother. I know Lily saw him.”
Silas gives me a raw look. “You're sure? She was in the middle of a stroke when she claims she saw him.”
“I believe her. Don't you?”
“I think you want to believe her.”
I start to object. He shoves a fresh strawberry in my hand and gives me a hard stare. “Listen. I know all about wanting your sibling to be something different. My sister was a heroin addict. Trisha just about destroyed my mother when she was using. She had the sweetest little girl. Now Kelly's an orphan and my mother is heartbroken. Every day Trisha was using, I wasted a lot of time and effort trying to deny what she was doing. Not because I was living in some fake world. Because the pain of knowing how much it hurt everyone was fucking hard to bear.”
He stands up and walks into the house. The ocean whispers behind me, telling stories so old, they're pieces of other worlds. I listen for longer than I should, caught up in the wordless tale.
Silas hands me a beer, opened already. His is half empty.
I drink the beer. All of it. In one long gulp.
Pain fills my chest. I hold my breath.
The pain is real.
So is what Silas is telling me.
I breathe out, slow and steady, as I release the pressure. He watches me, then looks up at the waning moon, the lull of the surf turning me meditative. I see why people love the ocean so much. It drowns out the sound of your own thoughts, the moon shining down, reflected back up by the swell of water that becomes rain, eventually consumed by all of us as it finishes the cycle.
Life is just one big circle.
“Lily thought he was me. When she saw him at the club.”
“We combed the place for evidence. All we need is some DNA. But Margin of Error is a sex club. There’s DNA everywhere, from hair to jizz.”
“We need a match.”
“A match for a man who doesn't exist.”
“My brother exists.”
“You know what I mean. There’s no DNA database with Wyatt McDuff in it.”
“No. There isn't.”
He gives me a sidelong look. “Or whatever his name might be.”
A cold dread mixes with a weird quickening in my blo
od, the steady rise of emotion pulsing through me. My temples throb, the image of the clue I possess–have possessed for a long, long time–coming full force into my mind's eye.
I turn to Silas, who stares at me. Does he feel the shift? Am I that easy to read?
“What if,” I say slowly, running my fingers through my short hair, sliding my hand down to my neck, “I have DNA on my brother.”
“How?”
“Gran.”
“Your grandmother?”
“Yep.”
“She kept his DNA?”
“She did, although she didn’t think of it like that.” One corner of my mouth goes up. “First haircut. I have a few curls of Wyatt's hair in a locked box in my apartment.”
“You've never had it tested?”
“Sure I did. Well–Alice did.”
“Hair analysis is iffy. You know that.” Skepticism invades, a thief of hope.
“I know. But DNA databases are like wine. They just get better with age.”
“You'd need a match. A separate piece of hair to run against it.”
“You said our guys went over the club.”
“Meticulously.”
Our eyebrows rise at the same time, excitement making our shoulders broaden, muscles primed for a different kind of attack.
This one, with test tubes and gene sequencing.
But hey–we take our weapons where we can find them.
Because it's all about keeping the good people safe.
And figuring out how you define “good.”
Epilogue
Lily
* * *
Six months later
* * *
“I told you, Aunt Jane, I'm too old for unicorns!” The little brown-haired girl crosses her arms over her chest, two chestnut braids running down the front of her, resting on her wrists like snakes. It's good to see her again. The sun sines through the front windows like it's stretching after a long sleep, the shafts of light sprinkling the room with an ethereal glow.
The air is so fresh. I'd forgotten how clean I could feel by just standing here, breathing. Nothing more needed of me but to inhale and exhale. There aren't many places in this world where you can do that.
For me, Seans arms and The Thorn Poke are it.
It's so good to get back to normal.
And you can't get more normal than a little girl arguing with her aunt about flowers and unicorns.
“How can you be too old if I'm not too old?” Jane asks, aghast. She's let her hair go back to its normal color and grown it out, the length giving her more flexibility. She looks older now, a bit gaunt, but with eyes and wrinkle with amusement and love.
“Unicorns are for babies. I'm not a baby. I am eight years old now.” Kelly's mouth sets in a tight line, ling eyelashes covering the tops of her cheekbones as she looks down. Biting her lower lip, she looks up as if having second thoughts at being defiant. Uncertainty shimmers in those eyes like a ghost from the past making its way to the surface.
“Then what do you want if you don't want a unicorn bouquet? How about princesses?”
Does Jane see the change? I can feel it.
“Like Princess Meghan?” Confidence comes into Kelly's voice, steadying her a bit. I look at Jane, who gives her a nod. Ah. Jane's got this covered. The deeper emotional vibration I feel is there, but it shifts when some part of me realizes Jane gets it.
And is taking care of Kelly in every way.
“Princess Meghan?” Jane says, frowning in concentration. “There's a thought.”
I don’t explain that Meghan Markle is technically a duchess. Why ruin a little girl’s excitement?
“Yes!”
Jane strokes her long hair and tweaks a braid. “When your hair's combed out, you look a little like her.”
Perfect words. Kelly perks up. “I do?”
I laugh, standing behind the flower shop's counter, gripping the edge with a little more tension than normal. I've come back to work at The Thorn Poke one day a week, more to get over my fear than to actually help Mom and Dad. They swear I'm truly contributing, but I know Bowie–and even Gwennie–can do the same work.
Baby steps, I tell myself.
Baby steps.
Romeo is dead. His body may be buried, but he's alive and well in my mind. Nightmares still litter my nights, leaving pieces of memory trash in my psyche. It rots and festers in endless loops, making me waken with a breathless intensity, Sean's presence in the dark night the only solace.
Every morning I wake up and wonder when this will end.
Sean tells me it will. One day. And even if it doesn't, he's with me all the way, holding me tight.
Drew's team did an analysis and they think I'm not a target of Stateless. They even think Sean isn't–as long as he keeps his head down.
That doesn't mean I don't see Romeo's dark eyes whenever I try to go to sleep. It's slightly better if I'm in bed with Sean.
But not much.
Intrusive thoughts come at the worst possible moments.
Like when an adorable eight-year-old is arguing with your friend.
Something pokes my left hand. Kelly's head is bent down, the perfectly even braids impressing me.
“Good job on the braids,” I tell Jane.
Her palms go up in objection, the smile sly. “Silas gets all the credit. He's the braider in the family.”
“Your ring is so pretty,” Kelly gushes, her index finger jabbing at my engagement ring. “It's beautiful!”
Jane gives me a look that makes me blush. “Thanks.” I rub it absentmindedly. Sean proposed in his own understated, quiet way after sex a few weeks ago. Slipped the ring on my finger, and then asked.
My yes was already out of my mouth before he hit the first knuckle.
“When are you getting married? Uncle Silas and Aunt Jane are getting married in a few months!” Kelly grabs Jane's left hand, which holds its own engagement ring.
“She knows, sweetie. Lily is one of the bridesmaids.”
“Are you doing the flowers at the wedding?” Kelly gasps.
“My mom is.”
“Your mom must be so excited! My grandma loves weddings. She says it's about time Uncle Silas finally made a decent woman out of Jane!”
I start coughing to cover my laughter. Jane just rolls her eyes and points to a unicorn arrangement. “How about this?”
Kelly's face turns into a pout. “No.”
“I think,” I say, clearing my throat to evict the sudden frog in my throat. “I think you are too old for unicorns.”
Jane gives her a triumphant smile.
“And princesses are overdone.”
Jane's face falls. What are you doing? her eyes scream at me.
“In fact,” I whisper, leaning down, beckoning Kelly to come closer. “I think you need to be the person who sets a new trend.”
“New? What do you mean?”
“Unicorns and princesses are fine. But what about something even bigger and bolder?”
“Like what?”
“What are you good at, Kelly? Really, really good at?” My thighs scream from bending, but I don't wobble. Working out with Rhonda is making a big difference, but so is time. A mirror across the store shows me in full length, my new glasses a hot pink frame for eyes with dark circles under them. My hair is long and wavy, hiding my scars.
And I'm smiling.
It's a genuine smile.
Uncertainty fills her little face, breaking my heart. “I don't–I don't know what I'm really good at.” She looks to Jane for affirmation.
“She's really good at playing Candyland. A ringer, in fact.”
I clap my hands, the idea instantaneous. “CANDYGIRL!” I stand slowly, savoring my ability to move and be and stretch. One big breath and then I add. “Because you're so sweet!”
“What?”
“You're the Sultan of Sugar! The Skittle Sistah! You put the 'her' in Hershey!”
“What does candy have to do with flowers?” Kelly's li
ttle face screws up in skepticism, mouth going slanted, eyebrows dropping.
“EVERYTHING!” I squeal. “We can match your favorite candies to flowers! And make a big headband out of flowers and candy.”
Kelly's face flushes pink, eyes sparkling. “I love it!”
Jane beams. “Let's do it. Where do we start?”
“I–”
“Lily!” Sean says roughly, interrupting Jane and Kelly as he barrels into the store, holding his phone in his hand, an expression of disbelief on his now-pale face. A suit covers his body but his shirt is loose at the waist, the tie askew. While he spends as much time as possible with me, he's taken on some other assignments. Today he was guarding a diplomat in La Jolla at a conference, so his appearance is unexpected.
And it fills me with fear.
“What's wrong? You're sweating and shaking! Are you sick?” I ask him, Kelly turning to Jane in worry. My eyes catch Jane's. She gets it. We all do. Even little Kelly does. When you've lived through death and torture and kidnapping and abuse, the slightest problem triggers it all over again.
Only time and perspective help our bodies to get back to a baseline far from panic.
“Hell, no. The opposite. I'm celebrating!” A strange mixture of emotion dances across his face, as if feelings could do a ballroom performance on skin. He's sweaty, eyes alert and alarmed at the same time, a far-off feeling to his expression making me halt.
He holds out the phone for me to see.
The hair was a match. Lily was right.
“Hair? Match?” I ask, not understanding, trying to align what he's saying with any pattern in our lives that makes sense..
He pulls me aside, Jane shooing us, engaging Kelly in conversation about red candies and red flowers. My arm burns where he touches me, a burst of neuropathy pulsing through my body as fear turns into hormones that surge. His intensity is palpable.
And chemical.
“Gran kept a lock of Wyatt's first haircut. Quite a chunk of hair, in fact. Lots of curls. Silas ran it through every database. It's taken six months, but we found a match from a place where Romeo was assigned. A place where a high-ranking foreign emissary died under suspicious circumstances, but the U.S. blamed another country for it.” Rapid speech pours out of him like a be hive being smacked with a baseball bat.
