by Alyson Noel
It’s silly, I know, but I can’t risk there being even the slightest sliver of truth to her words. The movie will wrap soon, Vane and I will go separate ways, and falling in love is an option I just can’t afford.
With our hands and feet fully tended, we make our way along the sidewalk grills, devouring five beef and sausage brochettes, a pile of fries, and two Fantas between us, before drifting through the square’s nightly circus that includes snake charmers, acrobats, jugglers, fortune-tellers, healers, monkey trainers, and musicians. There’s even a woman who’s set up shop removing black rotted teeth from old men, which the two of us watch in horrified fascination.
Arms slung around each other’s waists, hips rubbing together on every other step, Vane’s breath tickles the curve of my ear when he slips a mini bottle of vodka from his pocket and offers me first swig.
I shake my head. Push it away. In any other place I might be game, but Marrakesh is different, and mysterious, and a little bit scary even. Not to mention I have no idea what the local laws are, though I’m guessing they’re strict, and the last thing I need is to end up in a Moroccan jail for underage drinking.
It’s the last thing he needs too, but it’s not like he listens. Vane just smiles, unscrews the cap, and takes a few swallows before he tucks the bottle back into his pocket and pulls me into a dark abandoned alleyway.
I stumble. Squint. Grasp at the wall as I fight to find my way. Steadied by the warmth of his hands at my waist, and the reassuring phrase that flits through my head—the one Jennika used to wean me from my night-light back when I was a kid:
You gotta adjust to the dark so the light can find you.
He pushes the scarf from my head, leaving it to fall around my neck, as his face veers so close all I can really make out are deep blue eyes, and the most perfectly parting lips that are quick to claim mine.
I merge into the kiss, tasting the lingering traces of vodka still coating his tongue, as my hands explore the muscled expanse of his chest, the taut curve of his shoulders, the clean edge of his jaw. My fingers twisting into his silky mane of hair, as his slip under my jacket—under my tank top—seeking, discovering—bunching the fabric higher and higher as he works his way up.
Our bodies melding, conforming into a tangle of grinding hips—a crush of lips. The kiss becoming so heated, so urgent, my breath grows ragged, too fast, as my body ignites like a freshly struck match.
So delirious with the feel of him—the warmth of him—the promise of him—I surrender to the nudge of his fingers working inside my bra—circling, pulling, as my own fingers move south. Wandering over a well-defined abdomen, then lower still, down to his waistband. Ready to venture to places I’ve yet to explore, when he breaks away, his voice no more than a whisper when he says, “C’mon, I know a place.” The words thick, eyes bleary, as we fight to catch our breath, fight to keep from pressing forward and claiming the kiss once again. “Seriously. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before—it’s gonna be epic—follow me!” He finds my hand, pulls me out of the dark and back into the bright, lively square.
At first I go willingly, prepared to follow him anywhere. Though it’s not long before I’m seduced by the sound of that incessant pulsing rhythm—the trance-inducing lure of the gnaoua drum.
“Daire—c’mon, it’s this way. What gives?” He frowns, brows slanted in confusion when I drop his hand and keep going, not bothering to check if he follows—no longer caring about anything other than locating the source of that beat.
I squeeze through the tightly packed crowd until I’m standing before it—my head filled with the hypnotic rhythm of that red leather drum, my eyes swimming with the flash of crimson silk, gold coins, and a carefully veiled face revealing nothing more than a pair of intense, dark, kohl-rimmed eyes.
“It’s a dude—a trannie!” Vane shoves in beside me, mesmerized by the sight of the caftan-clad male with his hands thrust high, golden cymbals clinking, body wildly writhing.
But that’s all that Vane sees.
He doesn’t see what I see.
Doesn’t see the way everything stops.
Doesn’t see the way the atmosphere changes—growing shimmery, hazy, like peering through carnival glass.
Doesn’t see the way the glowing ones appear—hovering along the perimeter.
Doesn’t see the way they beckon to me—beg me to join them.
Only I can see that.
Even after repeatedly blinking, trying to return the scene to normal, it’s no use. Not only are they still there, but now they’ve brought friends.
Crows.
Thousands and thousands of crows that fill up the square.
They land on the drummer, the transvestite belly dancer—soaring and swooping and settling wherever they please—turning the once-vibrant square into a field of dark beady eyes that relentlessly watch me.
The glowing people creep forward—arms outstretched, fingers grasping—stomping the crows to a mess of black, bloodied bits.
And there’s nothing I can do to stop their progression—nothing I can do to convince time to march forward again.
So I do the only thing that I can—I run.
Bolting through the crowd, pushing, screaming, shoving, shouting for everyone to get out of my way. Vaguely aware of Vane calling after me—his fingers grasping, pulling me close to his chest, urging me to stop, to turn, to not be afraid.
My body sags in relief as I lift my face to meet his. Wondering how I’ll ever explain my sudden bout of craziness now that everything’s returned to normal again, only to gaze past his shoulder and find the crows replaced with something much worse—thousands of bloodied, severed heads hanging on spikes that fill up the square.
Their gruesome mouths yawning into a terrible chorus that calls out my name—urging me to listen—to heed their warning—before it’s too late.
One voice in particular rising above all the rest, its grisly battered face bearing an eerie resemblance to one in a crumpled old photo I know all too well.
two
The light zooms toward me, bright and unexpected—prompting me to squint, to cover my face with my hands, only to find that I can’t raise my arms—and when I struggle to sit, I fall back again.
What the—?
My limbs lie useless, stretched out to either side, and after lifting my head, trying to get a grip on my predicament, that’s when I discover that someone’s restrained me by tying me up.
“She awakens!” a female voice shouts, bearing an accent so thick I can’t tell if her tone is one of fear or relief. “Miss Jennika—please, to come quickly! It is your daughter, Daire. She is up!”
Jennika! So my mom’s in on this?
I roll my head to the side, taking in blue color-washed walls, terra-cotta tiled floors, and the ornately painted octagonal table that serves as a convenient drop spot for my banged-up tin of Rosebud Salve, my silver iPod and earbuds, and the water-warped paperback I’ve been lugging around. Watching as an old woman wearing the traditional long, black, hooded djellaba rushes from the room that’s served as my home for over a month, returning with a frantic Jennika who drops down beside me, and brings her cool palm to my brow. Her familiar green eyes, nearly exact replicas of mine, appearing lost, set adrift, among her shock of bleached platinum hair and pale worried face.
“Oh, Daire! Daire—you okay? I’ve been so worried about you! Are you in pain? Are you thirsty? Is there anything I can get you—anything I can do? Just tell me, and it’s yours!” She veers closer, peers at me anxiously, as her hands fret at the pillows just under my head.
My lips are so cracked, throat so sore, tongue so parched, when I open my mouth to speak, direct the words at her, it comes out sounding garbled and senseless even to me.
“Take your time,” Jennika coos, patting my shoulder and indulging me with an encouraging look. “You’ve been through a lot. There’s no need to rush it. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll stay for as long as it takes for you to feel better.”
I swallow hard. Try my best to drum up some saliva to speed things along, but my supply is so depleted, my second attempt isn’t much better.
“Untie me,” I croak, yanking hard against my restraints, hoping the action will convey what words can’t.
But if Jennika understood, and I’m pretty sure that she did, she chooses to ignore it and reaches for a bottle of water instead.
“Here, drink this.” She shoves a long red straw into the bottle and wedges it deep between my lips. “You’ve been asleep for so long—you must be dehydrated by now.”
Despite my mounting frustration, despite wanting to turn away, deny myself the drink until she unties me, I can’t help but guzzle it greedily. My mouth locked around the straw, my cheeks sucked in as far as they’ll go, overcome with relief when the cool, welcome liquid washes over my tongue and soothes my dry, scratchy throat.
The moment the bottle’s drained, I nudge it away, my gaze narrowed on hers when I say, “Jennika, what the hell are you doing to me? Seriously!” My arms and legs flop crazily as I try in vain to break free.
Watching in frustration when she turns, abandons me for the other side of the room where she takes her sweet time consulting with the old Moroccan woman, murmuring something I can’t quite make out, then listening intently when the woman shakes her head and murmurs something back.
Finally returning to me, she takes great care to avoid my gaze when she says, “I’m sorry, Daire. I really, truly am, but I’m not allowed to do that.” She runs a nervous hand over the front of her black tank top—correction, my black tank top—and I don’t remember telling her she could wear it. “I’ve been given strict orders not to untie you, no matter how much you plead.”
“What?” I shake my head—sure I misunderstood. “By who? Who instructed you to bind me like this? Her?” I nod toward the old woman. With her plain black robes and matching headscarf that covers all of her hair and most of her face, she looks just like every other woman I’ve ever passed in the souk. She hardly looks official enough to lay down the law. “Seriously, Jennika, since when do you follow orders outside of work? Is this some kind of joke? ’Cause if so, I’m telling you right now, it’s not funny—not funny at all!”
Jennika frowns, fidgets with the silver etched ring she wears on her thumb—the one I gave her last Mother’s Day on location in Peru. “Do you have any idea how you got here?” she asks, the mattress shifting when she perches beside me. “Do you remember anything?” Her long, silk skirt swishing as she crosses her legs and her gaze pleads with mine.
I close my eyes and sigh, pretending to lose all my fight as I force my body to settle into the cocoon of pillows she’s placed all around me. I have no idea what she’s talking about—no idea what’s going on—how I ended up being held prisoner in my own hotel room, by my own mom. All I know is that I want it to stop. I want her to untie me. I want my freedom back. And I want it now.
“I have to use the bathroom.” I pop one eye open and sneak a quick peek, confident she’d never deny me such a simple courtesy. “You think you can untie me for that? Or would you prefer I go right here in this bed?” I open the other eye, shoot her a challenging look, only to watch her bite down on her lip, take a quick glance at the woman standing guard in the corner, then shake her head firmly, refusing to oblige me.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. You can either hold it or use the bedpan,” she says, and I can hardly believe my own ears. “I’m not allowed to untie you until the doctor returns. But not to worry—it shouldn’t be much longer.” She nods toward the cruel-eyed sentinel in the corner. “Fatima called him just after you woke. He’s on his way.”
“Doctor? What the—?” I try to sit up, it’s a reflex, I can’t help it—but just like the last time, I slam back again.
So frustrated, so completely over this insane situation I find myself in, I’m gearing up to do something drastic, scream—cry—demand she untie me or else—when the memory ignites, and fragmented pieces spark in my mind.
Images of Vane—the square—the transvestite belly dancer—the incessant throb of the gnaoua drums … all of it coming in pulsating flashes—a dizzying flicker of snapshots that pop in and out of my head.
“Untie me,” I say, voice full of venom. “Untie me right now, or so help me, Jennika, I’ll—”
She bends toward me, the pink stripe in her hair falling onto my cheek as she presses a finger over my lips. Her gaze a warning, her voice betraying the full extent of her fear when she says, “You can’t afford to say things like that.” Her eyes dart toward Fatima as her tone drops to a whisper. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that landed you here. They’re convinced you’re a danger to yourself and others. They tried to admit you to the hospital, but I wouldn’t let ’em. Though if you insist on talking like that, I won’t have a choice. Please, Daire, if you want to get out of this place, you’re gonna have to learn how to contain yourself.”
Me? A danger? A menace to society? I scoff, roll my eyes, sure I’m caught in some kind of nightmare—one that feels freakishly real.
“O—kay…” I drag the word out as my eyes meet hers. “And exactly what did I do to deserve such a verdict?”
But before she can reply, the rest of the memory flares. More flickering images of glowing people, thousands of crows, and a square crowded with severed, talking heads hanging on spikes …
One in particular …
And then Vane.
Something happened with Vane.
He grabbed me. Tried to convince me that all was okay. But he couldn’t see what I saw. Couldn’t begin to comprehend what I knew to be true. Insisted on calming me, subduing me—leaving me with no choice but to do whatever it took to break free, get as far from the scene as I possibly could …
“You really made a mess of things.” Jennika’s voice catches as she stifles a sob. “You scratched up Vane’s face and arms pretty good. They had to delay the rest of the shoot until he’s fully healed since there’s no way to hide the wounds with makeup—and believe me, I tried. Not to mention the harm you did to yourself.” She trails a gentle finger down the length of my arm until she reaches a spot where I can no longer feel it. And that’s when I realize I’m bandaged. From my elbows down, both of my arms are covered in gauze—the tips of my exposed fingers bearing only the faintest trace of my mehndi tattoo.
Just as I thought—he loves me not.
I sink my head back onto the pillow, not wanting to see any more than I already have.
“Daire, you completely freaked,” she continues in typical Jennika fashion—her expression is sad, but she doesn’t mince words. “You had a meltdown, a total breakdown—a rift with reality, according to the doctor who treated you. It took a whole group of locals to intervene and pull you off Vane, and once they did, you went after them too. Luckily, no one’s pressing charges, and Vane’s publicist is working overtime trying to bury the incident and keep it out of the press. But you know how these things go in the age of the Internet.” Her shoulders lift, as her eyes tug down at the sides. “I’m afraid at this point damage control is the best we can hope for.” She lowers her voice until I can just barely hear, speaking to me like a fellow conspirator. “Vane claims there were no drugs or drinking involved, but, Daire, you know you can tell me the truth. You know our deal. You come clean with whatever you did, and I promise you won’t be in trouble.” She leans close. So close I can see the whites of her eyes are now shot with spidery lines of red—evidence of a recent crying jag. “Were you two partying? I mean, it was your birthday and all. Maybe you just wanted to celebrate in a really big way?”
Her voice lifts at the end, propelled by a sudden surge of hope. She’s looking for a fast and easy explanation—something solid to pin the blame on. An episode of teenage debauchery gone too far would be preferable to the horrible, hard to swallow truth: That after I attacked Vane, a host of innocent bystanders, and myself, I babbled like a crazy person, going on and on about crows, severed talking
heads hanging on spikes, and a tribe of scary glowing people intent on capturing me for purposes unknown. Continuing to fight, kick, and scream until I was finally subdued, carried away, tied to this bed, and injected with something that burned and stung its way through my veins before it sunk me into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The memory now fully resurfaced. I remember it all.
My eyes slew toward Jennika’s, seeing the fear displayed on her face, begging me to give her what she wants, confess to something I didn’t—wouldn’t—do.
But I won’t. Can’t. She and I have a deal. She’ll trust me until I give her a reason not to, and so far I haven’t broken that trust. Vane’s the one who drank; I refused to touch it. And as far as drugs go, I’ve been offered plenty over the years, but I’ve always said no.
What I saw was no fantasy. I was totally sober. I wasn’t hallucinating. I need at least one other person to believe that—and if I can’t convince my own mom, then who?
I shake my head, voice small and tired when I say, “I wasn’t partying.” I shoot her a meaningful look, desperate to convince her of the truth. “I didn’t renege on our deal.”
She nods, presses her lips together until they turn white at the edges. And despite patting my arm in a way that’s meant to be comforting, I can tell she’s disappointed. She’d rather I’d broken our pact than deal with a truth she can’t comprehend.
The silence looming between us so heavy and fraught I’m just about to break it, desperate to find a way to convince her that the crazy things I saw really did exist—that they weren’t the imaginings of a freaked-out mind—when there’s a knock at the door, a muffled exchange of voices, and a thick-figured man looms in the archway that leads to my room, with the ever-present Fatima lurking behind.
My gaze glides the length of him, starting with his highly shined shoes, freshly pressed suit, starched white shirt, and boring blue tie. Noting the way his eyes fail to shine, the way his lips practically disappear into his skin, and how his tightly controlled curls seem to repel the bright light shining just overhead.
