After all the pain and discomfort, it felt ridiculously unfair to have to look in the mirror and see someone else. Someone with her features, though her eyes were still shadowed like those of a raccoon from the two black eyes she’d gotten from the air bag, and her cheeks were still slightly swollen from the fluids and the possibly-cracked cheekbone. Someone who looked tired and a little frightened, someone with no hair and a big red scar on her head, someone who looked… older. More serious.
Her friend Beth came to visit before school started. They sat on the back deck in lounge chairs with tea and fresh scones Beth had brought from the Java Jim’s. Eating hurt. Chewing hurt. The bright autumn sun beat down on Claire’s newly shorn head, stinging the tender skin, and she’d finally had to move the chair into the shade.
“You’re really lucky, Claire.” Beth stared off into the distance, not looking at her friend. “You haven’t seen the pictures of the car, have you?”
“No.”
“I’m honestly surprised you’re alive at all.” Beth took a slow bite of her scone. “Maple cinnamon. You should eat more.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
Beth studied her. “What’s bothering you, aside from the obvious?”
Claire rubbed her thumb over the rim of her cup. “I don’t like being bald.” Her throat closed with unexpected, unwelcome emotion, and she muttered, “It’s probably stupid. But I really don’t like it. My hair had finally gotten a little of wave, and it was pretty. I don’t have the cheekbones to pull off a pixie cut, much less a buzz like this.”
Beth snorted. “You’re alive, Claire. Hair grows back. Don’t worry about it. And you have gorgeous cheekbones.”
Claire raised her eyebrows skeptically. “Says who?”
“Says me! You want me to shave my head too?”
Claire blinked at her. “What? No!”
Beth pulled her golden curls forward with both hands. “I’m serious. I’ll do it if it would make you feel better. We could be baldies together. I’ll buy us matching bandanas.” She grinned. “No! Little old lady hats with flowers on them!”
Claire giggled, then groaned. “Ouch. Don’t be ridiculous. Cutting off your luscious hair won’t make mine grow back faster.”
“But would it make you feel less alone in your baldness?” Beth met her eyes seriously. “It’s not about the hair. Claire. We’d make a cute pair with our heads bare… um… because I dare and I care!”
Claire laughed, then groaned more pathetically. “Oh, Beth. Don’t make me laugh.” She tugged on the pendant on her necklace, feeling the familiar ridges and bumps. It was comforting, and she was both surprised and grateful that it hadn’t been lost in the accident or the hospital stay.
When she let go of it, she forgot it again.
The sun fell below the trees. Claire shivered, the air a little too crisp for her to feel comfortable. Beth had left, having promised not to cut her hair off in solidarity with her friend but having made plans for another visit in three days. With some effort, Claire dragged herself into the house, juggling her paperback and the empty cup and plate with crumbs from the scone. With some effort, she had managed to eat the entire thing, and now doubted she’d be able to choke down much of dinner.
Two days after Beth’s next visit, Claire would be on the road to Charlottesville, Virginia, land of racehorses and wine and beautiful old brick buildings with lots of character. It was a lovely, albeit expensive, place to spend the next few years. Fortunately she had several scholarships; the awards wouldn’t cover all her costs, but a part time job would cover the rest. Her parents would help move her into the little studio apartment she’d leased.
She slid into the hot shower, letting the water soothe the lingering aches.
A week later, her parents slept on an air mattress on her living room floor after moving her few things into the apartment. Ethan slept on her couch. Her apartment was on the second floor with a lovely view of one of the many grassy areas around campus, edged by an old brick wall that exuded historic charm.
Claire felt, if not entirely healed, at least able to face the walk across campus to her classes. She didn’t have a car yet and didn’t want to drive anyway.
“Are you sure you’re all right, dear?” her mother asked for the hundredth time.
“Yeah, Mom. Thanks.” Claire smiled reassuringly. That had gotten easier over the weeks.
Ethan hugged her gingerly. “Have you had any more weird dreams?” he whispered in her ear.
She shook her head, glancing at him. “Have you?”
“No.” He studied her face, then glanced away. “But I keep wanting to.”
Claire frowned. “Don’t. I can’t imagine anything good could come of that.”
“What are you two whispering about?” her father said cheerily.
“Nothing!” Ethan’s voice squeaked, and Claire grinned at him, watching him blush. He was all gangly teenage limbs and floppy hair. Only a hint of little boy roundness remaining in his face. The thought of him in the wreck brought sudden tears to her eyes, and she wrapped her arms around him again.
“Love you, little brother.”
“Love you too, big sister.” He smiled at her. “Next time I see you, I’ll be taller than you. So enjoy it while it lasts.”
Chapter 13
Claire survived her first week of classes and even made a few new acquaintances who might turn into friends with a little time. Someone asked about the pink scarf wrapped around her head like a turban, and she explained about the accident and the resulting scar and shaved head. She hadn’t wanted to feel vulnerable so soon after meeting these new people. Unwelcome tears sprung in her eyes, and their sudden sympathy and kindness felt both surprising and comforting.
Friday, after her long morning class, she went back to her new apartment and made a cup of tea in a free mug from one of the groups advertising on campus. Then she sat at her little breakfast table that doubled as her desk when she didn’t want to sit in front of her computer. She pulled out the syllabus and found the book for the first assigned reading. A Brief History of Modern China. It thudded on the table.
Something in the corner of her eye flickered, and she spun in her chair.
It was him.
Claire sprang to her feet, glancing around frantically for some sort of weapon.
He stood several feet away, not moving, though his very stillness was terrifying. His cloak was that same midnight black she remembered from her adolescent nightmare, shadows crawling up his shoulders like living void, subtly shifting in a wind she could not feel. His hair was still a white-blond cloud around his narrow, hard face. He had high cheekbones and a thin, expressive mouth that showed not a hint of friendliness; the overall effect gave Claire the impression of haughty, unyielding arrogance with a thread of cruelty.
She blinked, and she remembered that strange dream she’d had in the coma after the accident.
“You look different.” Even Claire herself wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by the words. He looked every bit as terrifying as he had in that childhood dream, even if perhaps now she realized how excruciatingly beautiful he was.
He had always been controlled before, elegant and aristocratic. Now there was a hint of desperation in the sharp lines of his face.
He tilted his head a little, eyes sharp on her face. “Even my kind can change, though not as quickly as humans do.” He took a step forward, and she shrank back against the wall just beside the fireplace. His lips lifted in a tight smile, showing his too-sharp teeth. “I once gave you a gift. I need it back.”
“You’ve never given me anything that could be called a gift.”
His eyes narrowed. “Call it a loan, then. Or if you insist, I offer full recompense for its value.”
“I don’t even know what you could possibly be talking about.” Her groping hand found the iron fireplace poker. Her fingers curled around the handle.
He stared at her, eyes bright and hard, glittering with malice. “You always were
so eager to hate me. I had forgotten how much it hurt.”
“It’s not like you care! You’re a nightmare I had in a coma! And now you want to take something back that you never gave me. You’re impossible!”
He straightened, the withdrawal almost imperceptible. When he spoke again, his voice was all cool disdain. “I didn’t come to parley with you. Let me take it and be gone.”
“I don’t have anything!” She swung the iron rod at him fast and hard.
He danced back out of the way, teeth bared in a mocking smile.
“Go away!” she growled.
She swung the rod at him again, and he would have avoided it easily with his disconcerting grace and impossible speed, but he stumbled at the edge of her carpet, his boot heel catching in the thick pile. He caught his balance with a twist of his lithe body, throwing his hand up to block the rod from hitting him. He dropped it with a hiss of pain.
He backed up, cradling his hand, his face tight and furious. “I should annihilate you for that.”
“I’d like to see you try!” She advanced on him, then hesitated. The end of the rod was smoking, bits of flesh sizzling on the metal. Horrified, she looked back at him.
For a split second, she saw two versions of him, the images superimposed over each other. In one, he was as she had seen him before. Indigo silk shirt, high collared black cloak, tight breeches of dark leather, knee-high boots, hair an impeccable moonlight-pale pouf. He was predatory, feline grace and impossible beauty; he was seduction and fury and the longings of her teenage heart. His eyes shone with anger even as his lips lifted in a disdainful smile.
The other version made her pause. Dark blood was matted into his ridiculous hair on one side; it had crusted on his temple and in a long line smeared by a careless hand swiped across it. He wore different clothes of some dark fabric coarser than silk; blood had soaked through his shirt in several places, and she could see lighter fabric beneath the torn edges. He favored his right leg, standing there with his wounded hand cradled in the other, smoke still rising from his palm. His lips were similarly lifted, teeth bared, but the impression was subtly different; pain and sorrow rather than fury. He’d been lean before, but this vision of him was too thin, cheeks a little too sunken, dark shadows under his glittering eyes.
She trembled, the rod dropping just a little. “What are you?”
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” he growled. “Nor is the question relevant.”
She shivered. His voice carried so many layered emotions. Irritation, anger, desperation, condescension, boredom, hunger, weariness, tenderness. It was velvet and gravel, chocolate and lust and dark promises.
He stepped forward again, hands low and unthreatening. “I once thought…” His eyes swept over her, down and up, the weight of his gaze pressing upon her. “It doesn’t matter. Give it to me and I’ll be gone.”
She kept the iron rod between them, pointing it at him in what she hoped was a threatening manner. “No. Tell me. What are you?”
“Your villain!” he hissed. “As always, I am what you make of me. You’re the hero. You win! Banish me, then, after this. But give me back…” He hesitated, both superimposed faces blinking.
He shook his head, and for an instant, the more imposing image of him flickered. Faded. The darker image looked dizzy, eyes glazed.
“What’s happening? Are you using some kind of glamour on me?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’ve always seen what you wanted to see. Why ask that now?”
She glanced at his hand. His fingers were curled, not quite touching his palm. The tendons stood out on the back of his hand, the pale skin too thin. Her heart gave an unsteady little lurch. “Let me see it,” she whispered.
“No.”
“For once be honest with me!” she cried. “Please. Let me at least try to understand. Then I’ll… I’ll consider doing what you say.”
His mouth twisted, eyes boring into her. Then he opened his hand, turning it toward her. His palm was scorched black on the edges of a furious burn, raw flesh and fine bones open to the air. “You chose your weapon well,” he murmured. “I wish my words were half as effective.”
Claire’s stomach rose, and she turned away, the rod dropping from her fingers. “I’m going to be sick.”
“None of that,” he snapped. “There’s no time.”
She’d never been able to control nausea the way the heroines in the books seemed to. The feeling rose, her skin suddenly flushed and sweating, chilled and burning. She vomited on the beige carpet, the raspberry yogurt and coffee from breakfast stinging her throat. Hands on her knees, she couldn’t look at him, didn’t care if he took whatever he’d been demanding.
Her pulse roared in her ears, ka-thump ka-thump, and the sweaty heat turned to a clammy chill.
She swallowed the sour taste and focused on the texture of the carpet, trying to quell the roiling nausea. The edges of her vision faded a little with each beat of her heart. I’m going to pass out.
A touch on her shoulder made her heart leap into her throat.
“Come now. Didn’t I say there was no time for that?” He drew her away, his hand on her shoulder surprisingly gentle but inexorable.
She trembled, breathing too fast, and he pushed her toward her worn sofa. She collapsed into it and sank into the cushions.
“Sit.” He stood above her, his eyes bright on her face. “Don’t you think it’s a bit silly to be so concerned about the pain of a monster you both hate and despise?”
She stared up at the two images of him overlaid upon each other, polished and brilliant, worn and faded, bright and hard, thin and wounded. “Are you even a monster?” she whispered.
He sighed, and the more imposing image of him faded further. He blinked, then shook his head, as if he were dizzy. “I don’t believe it matters.” He focused on her again. “Besides, it all depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?”
“Are you real?”
“Of course I’m real!” He flexed his injured hand with an almost hidden wince. “Will you not give it back to me?” His voice had a strange, terrible inflection that she couldn’t decipher. It was as if she, or perhaps he, were fading out of reality, as if the sound traveled a thousand miles to reach her ears, drawn thin, the layers of seduction and danger stripped away to leave only the question itself.
Claire’s vision blurred in time with her pulse, and she closed her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Perhaps she fell asleep, or perhaps she fainted; afterwards she couldn’t be quite sure. The clock on her microwave told her that four hours had passed since her class had ended, but she couldn’t remember when the nightmare king had arrived, nor could she even begin to guess how long she had spoken with him.
The time he had been present felt strangely separated from the rest of the day, both real and unreal.
Her iron fire poker lay on the floor near the fireplace, not where it was supposed to hang on the stand. It was devoid of any signs of the tiny sizzling gobbets of flesh from his hand, but it was not where she had left it. There was no sign of vomit on the floor, but the sour aftertaste of it was in her mouth, entirely real and not imagined. Or so she thought.
She managed to put the incident behind her with a shower and dinner. Her parents had stocked her refrigerator with fresh fruit and vegetables, pre-seasoned meats, and frozen dinners. She used her new cookware and put together a simple meal of roasted chicken with rice and steamed vegetables. Then she sat and stared at the food, wondering if anything was real.
That night she dreamed of nothing, or at least nothing she could remember. In the clear light of Saturday morning, the nightmare king’s visit seemed like a dream caused by her overactive imagination or perhaps some lingering aftereffect of her head injury. But her brother remembered the same dream. And there was the iron poker… but that could explained by her mind playing tricks.
She tried to forget him.
Chapter 14
Thre
e weeks later, Claire tugged on her pendant as she walked out of the library. Graduate school was harder than undergraduate by an order of magnitude, and she knew she needed to focus on this paper. These professors would not take the fluff that had carried her so easily through her first four years.
She relished the challenge, and realized that for years she had been bored. Busy, but bored. The busyness had prevented her from realizing how very bored she was, how unchallenged she was, and how desperately she wished to do something that mattered.
Once I wished to be the hero. She still wished it, if she were honest with herself. This degree wouldn’t exactly make her a hero, but she thought it might give her some tools to work with. Organizations needed people with analytical skills. Surely she’d be able to do something heroic. Maybe she’d work at a nonprofit doing… something. Helping children in poverty stay in school, or get medical care, or something equally altruistic.
It did seem rather vague, when she thought about it. But isn’t that why we’re all in grad school? Because we don’t know what to do yet with our lives, and we’re stalling. Or maybe that’s just me.
She walked home through the cool twilight, letting her mind wander. I wish I could do something that really mattered.
Entering her apartment, she tossed her keys on the counter and wearily slung her backpack to the floor.
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