Exit Light

by Megan Hart

  “You think because you can change things here, you have power?”

  She advanced. He retreated. She got him on his knees in a second with one hand on his wrist and the other bending his hand back. No tricks, just speed and strength and desire.

  “I don’t need tricks,” she sneered, pushing him harder.

  He cried out in pain. His head bent, and she used her knee to nudge his face none-too-gently upward. He wasn’t crying, the way the boy would’ve been. Her hair hung around her shoulders again.

  “You think this is yours?” She bent his arm harder, until he squirmed. “It’s not. This is mine. My place. My time. And you are just a player in it for my pleasure.”

  Incredibly, though she bent his wrist so far the bones creaked, he shook his head. “It’s not real. This isn’t real.”

  “It’s real, sweetheart.” The witchwoman’s voice dipped low and hard.

  He shook his head again. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and his lips skinned back from his teeth, but he still tried to deny her. She leaned over him, driving him back onto his heels.

  “I need to dream this,” he said under his breath. “I don’t know why, but I do.”

  “Who told you that?”

  He looked up at her, face creased. “Spider.”

  She broke his wrist. And then his arm. He screamed and dropped to the sand when she let him go. He held his injured arm close to his body, curled like a shrimp. She kicked him in the kidneys, just for fun.

  The boy stepped forward and, growling, the dogman got between him and the man curled on the sand.

  “Who the hell is Spider?” The witchwoman’s voice rose and her hands moved, nails growing, getting ready to pinch and claw.

  The man only shook his head, moaning into the sand, heedless of the way it filled his mouth. He pushed with his feet to get away from her and even managed a few inches before she reached to grab his hair and yank his head upright.

  “Answer me,” the witchwoman said. “Or this gets nasty.”

  “Spider is a guide.” He moaned. Sweat had broken out on his face. He cradled his wrist and turned his head to heave.

  A guide? The witchwoman bent to spit into his face, but a figure in the edge of her vision stopped her. She looked up.

  The boy.

  “Don’t do that,” he said, swallowing his own fear. “Don’t do that anymore.”

  She dropped the man’s head into the sand and stepped over him to walk toward the boy. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  The boy shook his head. He carried the red-and-white ball. “You shouldn’t hurt people like that.”

  She moved closer. “I’m not hurting anyone, sweetheart. It isn’t me.”

  “Stop.” The boy backed up a step. The ball grew smaller and he put it in his pocket.

  From behind her stepped the dogman, growling. The dogman stank of meat and blood and earth, all overlaid with the same sour stench of burning leaves. She shrank from it in disgust.

  “Look what you’ve done,” she said to the boy. “Hurry, hurry, run and scurry. I can’t hide you now.”

  The dogman growled louder. Saliva dripped from its muzzle to stain the worn denim jeans, the grotty work shirt. Its hands were dark with grime. The witchwoman pointed at the rope coiled on its belt, and the hammer.

  “Look, sweetheart. It’s got its tools.”

  The boy stared without moving. He felt her wanting him to do it, to make the chaos, to bring the world to its knees around them, but he didn’t do it. He would not give her what she wanted, though the dogman snapped and snarled. Even though she pinched and grabbed.

  “Don’t I always take care of you?” she asked again as the dogman moved toward the boy. “Don’t you trust me?”

  The boy’s mouth tilted on one side. Too late, she realized he’d tricked her. She looked to the sand, fully black. Her plaything had vanished.

  “Get him,” she muttered to the dogman. “Bite him. Make him bleed.”

  The dogman moved forward. The boy held up his hands. He cried out. He covered his face.

  The earth shook, and this time, the witchwoman smiled.

  Chapter Seven

  The gym, as always, smelled of sweat and effort with an undertang of sexual frustration. Tovah had been there for half an hour, working in the small back room where she could punch and kick away on a bag without attracting too much attention. Where if she fell on her ass when she tried to kick, nobody would see. The mirrors reflected her stance and posture without hiding any details. Red face, messy hair, sweat-stained T-shirt. She’d stopped wearing shorts a long time ago, hating herself for giving in to vanity and societal pressure but unable to bear the constant scrutiny on her as she worked out. Or the questions, usually well-meaning but annoying and invasive all the same.

  How’d you lose it? How can you work out without a leg? Can you still feel it, sometimes?

  Usually women just looked and whispered to their girlfriends behind their hands. Men asked, straight up and blunt. At first she’d been glad for the questions, but then she quickly realized they weren’t listening to the answer. They asked, but they never really wanted to hear it. They wanted to ogle her prosthetic leg. She might not have minded if they’d also wanted to ogle the rest of her.

  She hated being reduced to a single limb.

  Now she worked out in sweatpants even though she got too hot and sweated twice as much. Kick. Kick. Punch-punch-punch. Take a breath. The empty room echoed with the sound of her blows and the rasp of her breath, and she worked until she had to admit defeat against the bag, which swung placidly on its heavy chain as though it wanted to mock her for giving up so soon.

  Grabbing her water bottle, Tovah headed out into the main gym for the row of treadmills lined up along the back wall. They all pointed toward an equal row of televisions tuned to the same station. Nodding at a woman whose name she didn’t know but whom she saw almost every time she came to the gym, Tovah hopped up on the end unit and fiddled with the controls until she had them set just right. A slight incline, a pace that wouldn’t kill her. She stuck her bottle in the holder, hung up her small towel and started walking.

  She’d always hated exercise, preferring instead the pleasures of the couch and an afghan and regulating her weight by food intake rather than physical activity. She’d rather have curled up with a good book and a glass of wine than gone for a walk. Kevin had been the active one, the sports fan, the golfer, the racquetball/basketball/softball player who spent most of his free time running around with some piece of sports equipment in his hands.

  The accident changed everything, her interest in working out included. It had been twelve kinds of pain in the ass to get back on her feet…both the original and the new-and-improved. But that wasn’t the reason why she had made the gym her second home.

  The doctors and physical therapists and nurses, hell, even the staff psychologists, had all told her there was nothing she couldn’t do with her new leg that she couldn’t have done with the old. And Tovah, stubborn about that sort of thing, had set out to make that so. Running. Kickboxing. She did all of it, mastering each new skill as a challenge she’d set herself. They’d told her she could do all of it, and she was going to.

  A groan from the treadmill next to hers caught her ear, and Tovah looked over. Briefly, she thought the woman there might be having some trouble, but then she shot Tovah a grin.

  “Sorry. Got carried away. But really, c’mon, can you blame me?” She jerked her chin toward the bank of televisions, now showing the close-up of a somewhat familiar face.

  Tovah wasn’t sure of the actor’s name. “Is that the guy from Runner?”

  “Yep. Justin Ross.” The woman fanned her face with a little sigh. “Otherwise known as Hotty McHottenstuff.”

  Tovah laughed and grabbed tighter to the handles as the treadmill started going a bit faster. “I don’t watch that show.”

  This seemed tantamount to declaring she didn’t bathe or brush her teeth, based on the look the other wo
man gave her. “What? How can you miss it? The eye candy alone is worth tuning in for! And besides that,” she added with a conspiratorial look around, though the only other person who might possibly be listening was a muscle-bound jock wearing headphones, “it’s really well written. Really suspenseful. It’s a little out there, true, kinda paranormal sci-fi, but it’s great.”

  “I’m usually asleep when it comes on,” Tovah explained.

  “Get it on DVD! They have seasons one and two out now,” offered the woman without hesitating. “God, girl, you have got to get yourself some Justin Ross. Or as I like to call him, my second husband.”

  “How does your first husband feel about that?” Tovah laughed wryly.

  “Meh, who cares. Like he’d toss his favorite starlet out of bed? I think not.” Huffing hard, she slowed her machine. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  Tovah, mouth full of water at that moment, swallowed hard. “Do what?”

  “Work out like that. I see you here every time I come in. You’re amazing.” The woman stepped off her machine and wiped her face with the teensy hand towel the gym provided. She sounded sincere, which made Tovah feel sort of funny, like she didn’t deserve the praise.

  “It’s not amazing, it’s habit.” She slowed, too, drinking more water and mopping her face. On the TV, Justin Ross was talking to some blonde reporter who couldn’t seem to stop herself from making goo-goo eyes at him.

  “I wish I had that habit.” The woman held out her hand. “I’m Kelly Leeds.”

  “Tovah Connelly.” They shook with a firm grasp of fingers and a short pump of palms. “I’ll check him out.”

  She looked toward the television, now showing a compilation of clips from Runner. Kelly looked over at it and sighed happily, holding her towel to her chest like a girl clutching a bouquet of roses from a suitor. Tovah laughed.

  “He’s just dreamy,” said Kelly, and laughed too.

  They laughed a lot on the way to the showers, Kelly regaling Tovah with tales of her favorite episodes of Runner and various other tidbits of information about the actor and herself. Tovah listened, mostly, chiming in when necessary—which wasn’t often. Kelly swept her up in a wave of words and giggles, and Tovah let herself be swept, enjoying the company.

  It stopped as soon as Tovah slid her sweatpants over her thighs. She’d been laughing as Kelly rambled on, but when the laughter stopped, Tovah turned. Kelly looked startled. Tovah waited for the stuttering apology, the averted eyes. The awkwardness.

  “Wow,” said Kelly. “Now I feel like an even bigger putz.”

  “Because you didn’t know?” Tovah straightened, feeling vulnerable in her panties and T-shirt, and grabbed her towel from the locker.

  “No, because you are a frigging machine and I’m a big fat lazy slob with two good legs, and you still kick my ass on that treadmill!”

  This honest answer squeezed a stunned giggle from Tovah’s throat. Kelly laughed too, hands on her hips. She didn’t look freaked out or sorry, either. A rush of relief flooded Tovah.

  “Do you have anything going on after this?” Kelly asked. “I’m going to the Sticky Bun for some coffee and low-fat danish. Want to come along?”

  She did, so much it surprised her, and she nodded. “Sounds great.”

  Kelly beamed and started shucking off her clothes. “Don’t make me fight you for the clean shower. You’ll win and I’ll have to think of a creative way to get back at you.”

  And that was that. No further weirdness, no indiscreet stares. Kelly had seen Tovah’s leg as a part of her. Not seen Tovah as an extension of her loss. That was worth a lot, even if it meant listening to fangirl squeeing about Justin Ross, who really was pretty cute.

  “I don’t really crush on celebrities,” Tovah explained at the Sticky Bun. The coffee was delicious, even for being decaf, and she thought briefly of the hospital. Maybe next time she went to visit Henry she’d bring along a cup for Dr. Goodfellow.

  “I can’t help it.” Kelly sounded glum but looked absolutely unapologetic. “Hey, at least crushing on an actor is better than a real person.”

  Tovah laughed. “You don’t think Justin Ross is a real person?”

  “Well, he’s real. Just not, you know. Real.” Kelly laughed, too, scraping up the crumbs from her pastry.

  “And your husband doesn’t mind?” Tovah sipped more good coffee.

  Kelly shrugged. “He works third shift. I need something to do.”

  Tovah nodded. Kevin hated any actor she’d expressed interest in. Then she’d thought it was cute, that irrational jealousy. “My ex would’ve minded.”

  “Maybe that’s why he’s an ex.”

  Tovah laughed. “Maybe one of the reasons.”

  “At any rate, you have no excuse not to watch Runner then.” Kelly declared this like there could be no question. “I’ll even lend you seasons one and two. You’ll love it.”

  Tovah smiled at the other woman’s confidence. “Okay, you sold me.”

  “Great! You’ll be at the gym tomorrow? I’ll bring them then.”

  As easily and casually as that, they became friends. It was, Tovah reflected on the way to her car, the adult equivalent of giving someone on the playground a lick of your sucker. She didn’t mind. It had worked.

  Sleep was refusing Tovah. Her daily workout had left her body pleasantly exhausted, but her mind continued racing like a yappy dog fighting its tail. Max’s snores from the floor next to her bed usually soothed her, but tonight they pulled her back from the edge of slumber with each rumbling mutter.

  So did the whir of the ceiling fan, the clatter of cars passing, the flicker of moonlight streaming through tree branches moved by the wind. The weight of her blankets became too heavy, and she kicked them off, but was chilled a moment later and had to pull them up again. She closed her eyes, counting backwards. She timed her breathing.

  Nothing was working.

  It was performance anxiety, Tovah realized with a disgruntled sigh. She wanted so badly to get into the Ephemeros she was blocking herself. And why did she yearn so fervently for the dream realm?

  Sex.

  She could still feel her lover’s touch. Smell him, taste him. She hadn’t made love in the waking world since the last time she’d been with Kevin, and that had ended in disaster. He’d turned from the sight of her scars, breaking the already fragile glass of their marriage. She’d asked him to move out the next day, and he’d gone without argument.

  She’d made love in the dream realm on occasion, when her solitary pursuits no longer satisfied and the craving for a man’s hands on her grew too much to bear. She’d never carried over the sense of satisfaction into the waking world, the feeling that everything had somehow opened up for her in a way she wasn’t sure she understood but enjoyed, anyway.

  Now she tossed and turned and yearned for that feeling of freedom back again. It was sex, but more than that. It was the ability to let someone get close to her again instead of holding most everyone off at arm’s length. The sex had been great, magnificent, extraordinary, but it had also been…

  “More.” She spoke aloud to her ceiling.

  He’d said he’d find her, but he never would if she didn’t get to sleep. Though her eyes drooped and her breathing had gone slow and deep, Tovah was still minutely aware of every tick of the clock, every rustle of skin on sheet.

  Through her window a beam of light flared. Her eyes flew open. The floodlight from next-door had gone on—the neighbors had set it to trigger at movement and apparently had never considered that its path shot directly into her bedroom window. Nor had they disconnected it when they moved away. She could have dealt with it being always on, but the sudden random glare never failed to smack her awake. She muttered a curse and steadfastly closed her eyes. The light went out a moment later.

  When the phone rang, her eyes flew open and her heart tried to leap out of her throat. She grabbed up the phone, the lighted keypad showing the identity of her late-night caller. She didn’t recogn
ize the number, though the name was familiar.

  “Ben?” She cradled the phone against her cheek.

  “We’re waiting for you,” Ben said, voice tinny through the speaker. “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t fall—oh, shit.” Tovah looked around at her dark bedroom. “I am asleep. Where are you?”

  “With Spider.”

  “I’m in bed,” she said.

  Ben was silent for a moment, but when he spoke he sounded amused. “I know. We can see you.”

  She looked around again and pulled the sheet up to cover her nightgown, a silly reaction since she only needed to shape herself as fully clothed if she wanted to. “I don’t see you.”

  “You’re not looking hard enough.”

  She stuck up her middle finger. “Can you see that?”

  “Nice,” said Ben. “Very nice.”

  “Stop fooling around, Tovahleh.” A corner of the room brightened to reveal Spider. He looked impossibly huge and fantastic in the normal setting of her bedroom, but at the sight she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  What an undiminished joy it was to get out of bed and stand, solid, on two feet. She took a moment to cherish the feeling of the soft rag rug beneath her toes. In the waking world she’d put the rug, which had been hand-knotted by her favorite grandmother, into the guest room after it had slid out from under her one too many times. Now she didn’t fear falling.

  Tovah stretched, shaping light where there had been dark. She unshaped the walls and floor, putting herself onto soft green grass and under blue skies. Ben and Spider thought she didn’t practice her shaping enough, that she spent too much time playing in clubs and pursuing selfish pursuits. Tovah didn’t deny that she used the Ephemeros to fulfill desires she couldn’t in the waking world—but who didn’t? But what Ben and Spider didn’t seem to see was that she did also hone her skills. Just because she didn’t want to be a guide didn’t mean she didn’t want to improve her control of the dream realm.