“ ’Course you did,” said Archer.
“How do you keep appearing?”
“I get around,” said Archer, winking and patting the space next to him.
“Look, I know you think you’re all irresistible, but I have to find a certain mattress, and I have about”—she glanced at the digital clock—“twenty minutes. So I’m going to have to . . . um . . . resist.”
The thumping against the window intensified.
“Phoebe,” said Archer in the most serious tone she’d ever heard him use.
“Yes?” She examined another mattress. Flawless.
“Why don’t you and I get outta here? I know this place . . .”
“I’m busy?”
“Yes, but . . .”
Phoebe sat on the edge of the next mattress and sneezed.
“Bless you.”
“Wait . . .” She lay across the bed. Sneezed again. And again. Her eyes itched. “This is it! This is the bad mattress,” she said, waving at the one-way glass and pointing to the mattress.
“Great. Let’s go,” said Archer.
A crash echoed through the room. Weston had smashed through the window and was tumbling onto a king-size mattress beneath.
“Weston,” Phoebe cried, running to his aid.
“Phoebe!” He launched himself off the mattress straight at Phoebe, knocking her to the floor. She struggled beneath him.
“Get off.”
“I love you!” he shouted.
“I. Can’t. Breathe. And you’re bleeding.”
“I bleed for you, my love. Kiss me!”
His mouth came closer. She tried turning away, but he held her head in a viselike grip. Right before their lips touched, his weight lifted off her body, and she gulped breaths of fresh air.
Archer loomed over her, holding Weston by his sweatshirt as if he were a soiled towel. “I believe the lady said no.” Tossing Weston aside, he helped Phoebe to her feet.
“Weston,” shouted Mrs. Fitzgerald from the office. She pulled a hook from a tool belt hidden beneath her designer jacket, cast it out the broken window to one of the chandeliers, and zip-lined along the ceiling, falling to a mattress near Weston.
The elevator dinged. Mr. Fitzgerald.
Mrs. Fitzgerald flung her arms around her son. “Weston, honey, you okay?” Mr. Fitzgerald joined in.
“Ouch,” said Weston, pulling away, examining the blood on his sweatshirt. “Mom, did you just zip-line?”
Archer smirked. “He’ll be fine.”
“Who are you?” Mrs. Fitzgerald blew a strand of white hair out of her eyes.
“Friend of Phoebe’s.”
“Huh?” said Phoebe.
Mrs. Fitzgerald walked up to Archer, balled her hands into fists, and glared at him as if contemplating an agonizing punishment.
The digital clock buzzed. Midnight.
Phoebe’s body jolted. Her blood ignited. Muscles contracted. She imagined her body convulsing on the floor as if she’d been hit by lightning, but no one reacted. As quickly as it came on, the energy surge subsided, though her heart hammered and her fingers and toes tingled. She stood in the same spot she’d occupied before the shock.
“Congratulations, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. Obviously she hadn’t noticed anything unusual. “You succeeded. With five minutes to spare.”
“Uh, thanks,” said Phoebe. “You know, anyone without severe allergies would never have found it.”
“We weren’t looking for ‘anyone,’ ” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “We were looking for someone special. Like you!”
“Okay,” said Phoebe, unconvinced. The Fitzgeralds were a bit crazy. Then she realized she’d gotten the job. Never again would she and her mom have to eat Spaghetti Loops. “I mean, thank you. I look forward to working for Bull’s-Eye Mattresses.”
“There’s one thing we haven’t mentioned,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“It’s not even significant,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, who became quite interested in playing with the zipper on his Members Only jacket.
“Yes?”
“Well, part of the deal is that you have to marry Weston.”
“What?” said Phoebe and Cupid simultaneously.
“We need an heir. He’s not quite up to the task.”
Weston grimaced. “That’s just . . . embarrassing.”
“We’ll arrange a flight tomorrow to Las Vegas,” said Mr. Fitzgerald.
Phoebe folded her arms across her chest. “I’m not getting married.”
“I’m afraid you are,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald.
The front door opened, and Inaya stepped inside. “Phoebe. I’m here.”
“Mom, no. Get out of here.”
Mrs. Fitzgerald grabbed Inaya with one arm. “I think you better cooperate, Phoebe. It’d be a shame if something happened to your mom,” she said, drawing a rope from her tool belt.
“Leave her alone,” said Phoebe, wishing she, Archer, and Inaya were somewhere safe.
No sooner had the thought formed in her head than the three of them were sitting side by side atop a twenty-foot pile of mattresses. “What’s going on?” Fear rippled along her neck, and her palms were slick with sweat. She closed her eyes, knowing it would disappear when she opened them. She’d seen a lot of weird things in her life, but this had to top them all. She raised her eyelids, but the hallucination persisted.
“What the hell?” said Mrs. Fitzgerald from far below.
“Calm down, dear. I’m sure there’s an explanation,” said Mr. Fitzgerald.
“I’m asleep, right?” said Phoebe.
Archer and Inaya exchanged a glance.
“You two acquainted?” she asked.
“I don’t know what Eros is doing here, but he knows your dad.”
“What are you talking about? My dad? Eros?”
“I prefer Cupid,” said Archer.
“Like the Cupid? I thought he was a fat baby with wings.”
Archer frowned. “I grew up. Like everyone. What is it with people being hung up on me being a baby? Uh-oh.”
The Fitzgeralds froze like statues. The floor undulated. Chandeliers swayed. The temperature climbed as patches of fire singed the floor models. “There’s your father now,” said Inaya.
“Eros,” thundered a voice from beneath the room. “You have failed me for the last time. The girl was not to come into her powers. Prepare for high school.”
“Hades?” said Inaya, jumping gracefully off the mattresses. She planted her hands on her hips. “Is that you, you no-good, lying, cheating, cave dweller?”
“Uh.” His voice was less thunderous.
“Coward,” said Inaya. “I can’t believe I fell for you.” Inaya had never been more angry, powerful, or beautiful.
The room stilled. The temperature dropped.
“Thank the gods,” breathed Cupid, wiping his brow. “He’s gone.”
“Yeah, he’s good at that,” said Inaya.
“MY DAD IS HADES?” Even confusion looked beautiful on Phoebe. Cupid scooted closer. She smelled like Valentine’s Day—of roses and chocolate.
“I need space,” she said, elbowing Archer. “Ow. You’re hard as a marble countertop.” She rubbed her elbow.
“Thank you,” said Archer. “It’s not as good as my god body.” Cupid cleared his throat. The tightness that had been there since Hades invoked the spell of silence had disappeared.
“You’re a god?” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “What an ego.”
“Well, you’re a goddess.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”
“It’s true. Your dad is Hades. So technically you’re a demigoddess. And now that you’re twenty-one, and you didn’t kiss Weston, you’ve got your powers. Hades had sent me here to make sure you passed the tests so you’d kiss ‘the heir to the kingdom’ and stay human, but I fell in love with you, so that plan went kaput. Now we can run away and get married and live happily ever after. As soon as I finish high school. Again.”
�
��How dare you decide what I’m going to do with my life? Whether or not I’ll be a goddess. You’re more insane than the Fitzgeralds. By the way, why haven’t they moved since that earthquake and disembodied voice stopped by?”
“Hades froze them.”
“That’s horrible. Unfreeze them.”
“I can’t. I’m in human form. Remember? I’m pretty sure you can, though. Now, back to us. Will you wait for me to graduate?”
“Why would I be with someone who lied to me? Tricked me?”
There was only one thing left to do. He kissed Phoebe, invoking his entire soul.
She tasted as good as she smelled. He pulled her next to his prone body, and they melted together. He touched every part of her body within reach. She moaned. Or maybe that was him. When he’d finished kissing her senseless, he pulled back to gaze into her eyes. “That’s why.”
“I don’t know if a kiss is enough of an inducement. Even if it was better than anything I’ve felt in my life. But I am not the kind of girl . . . goddess . . . whatever, to live my life for a man. God. Whatever. How long did you say you’d be in high school?”
Cupid grinned. “I’ll let you know.” And he kissed her again.
“PHOEBE, WE SHOULD PROBABLY go celebrate your birthday. Maybe you should wake up these people.”
“Okay, Mom.” Phoebe wished she and Cupid to the floor. It worked. Awesome.
She wished the Fitzgeralds unfrozen.
“What’s going on?” said Mr. Fitzgerald.
“Phoebe, my love,” said Weston.
This was the last thing she needed. A lovesick mattress heir. She wished Weston would stop being in love with her.
Weston’s eyes cleared and he shook his head.
“Let’s get on with the wedding plans,” said Mr. Fitzgerald. “The Mrs. and I need time to pack. So much gear for the Antarctic.”
“Look, you two,” said Phoebe. “I won the contest fair and square. I have the job. You can’t change the rules. And guess what? Weston doesn’t want to marry me. If you want to go on vacation, be my guests. As a matter of fact . . .” She waved her arms. The Fitzgeralds were outfitted in parkas and snow pants. Boots and plenty of fleece. “Have a great trip.” She wished them to Antarctica. “Good-bye, Weston,” she said, teleporting him to the spot outside the Shark Bar where he’d lusted after the mermaid.
“Cupid, where can I send you?”
“Mount Olympus would be nice.”
“Sure. Will you be okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you in a few years.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. Her body arched into his, and she kissed him hard. “I’m really hating your dad a lot right now.”
“Bye, Cupid.” She wished him away, surprised at how hard it was to let him go.
“Let’s go celebrate your birthday,” said Inaya.
“Mom, why didn’t you tell me my dad is Hades?”
“I didn’t want you growing up thinking you were destined to be evil.”
“How could I grow up like that when I have you for a mom?”
“I love you, Phoebe.”
Hugging her mom, Phoebe teleported them to the closest bar, where they toasted her twenty-first birthday.
The next day, she teleported into the Bull’s-Eye Mattresses office, made a cup of strong coffee, put her feet up on the desk, and surveyed her kingdom.
Awake
jesse sprague
Rose
THOUGH GARBLED BY DISTANCE, a voice pierced the shroud over Rose’s mind. The darkness around her practically constrained her limbs and froze her lips. Without the ability to speak or move, all Rose could do was listen.
She shoved aside the comforting nothing and strained to comprehend the heated words. Crane’s heated words. The anger in her husband’s voice bit, burning off layers of haziness until the sound rang through her.
“I refuse to believe there’s no solution,” Crane said.
Beneath the rage of his tone was something that hurt her—a deep weariness. If her hands hadn’t weighed so much, she would have lifted them to comfort him, smooth his wild curls.
“I’m sorry, Crane,” another man said. His voice had the crackle that came with advanced age. “You have enough medical training to understand what these signs mean. You’ve read her vitals. I can’t refute anything the doctors have told you. Refusing the truth won’t help you or Rose.”
Rose stretched out mentally, pressing against limbs as responsive as stone. Pounding against her eyelids—steel shutters to her lonely world. If only she could find a crack, a single weak point, and could move! She could rush to Crane, tell him death came for everyone in their turn, that she loved him and had never blamed him.
“I have done everything the doctors asked.” Crane’s voice was closer now. “Everything. I won’t accept she’s getting worse, that—”
“I think you need to prepare yourself for the inevitable. Her brain is shutting down. It’s not what I want to say, but it’s true. This must be very hard for you, but she’s already weakening. From the readings, within a few weeks, even if she wakes up, she won’t be your wife anymore.”
The voices faded until they were no more than a buzz.
CRANE HAD ALWAYS SAID she was his heart, but now all Rose could be was a weight around his neck, a grief that wouldn’t fade so long as her stupid body insisted on remaining alive.
If stopping her lungs from drawing air were possible, Rose would have. Crane should be able to continue with his life. In spite of the despair cloaking her, she had memories to live on. Would Crane allow himself that comfort? He’d always blamed himself for her disappointments.
His voice, even in its absence, hummed in the background as days passed and brought back swelling memories of their life together.
She recalled their honeymoon. He’d taken her five miles from town to a bed-and-breakfast for a long weekend. It rained the whole trip—a freezing rain with a biting wind. They’d lain under a floral comforter together, and she’d told him about all the wonderful vacation spots in her travel magazines—places they’d go someday. It wasn’t until years later, when she found Crane studying her vacation notebooks, that she realized he had no idea how perfect that time was for her. He’d thought he’d failed her.
Sure, she liked to daydream of distant locales and five-star hotels that cost more than he made in a month, but a day in the rain with him beat any exotic location without him. Crane was her real dream. He was a warm, steady home filled with love. If only she’d been able to make him see.
Crane’s voice filtered in . . . “Rose, it’s not ready.”
She imagined his soft palm, the skin dry from too much hand sanitizer.
“What else can I do?” he asked.
Tears burned inside her, unspent, clogging the emptiness with words that frothed behind her unresponsive lips.
“If I’d just come home an hour sooner that day, you would be fine. I cannot give up now . . . this was the point of it all—you. Always you, Rose. The machine isn’t ready to be tested. The dispersal of energy is wrong; the fluctuations must be less extreme in the final distribution.”
As Crane moved, something crashed, shattered. Unseen, glass shards flew all over the room, a room she was trapped in but had never seen.
Crane had moved to this house in what had seemed like a bribe to Rose’s spirit. She’d begged him for years to move to Able’s Hollow. The university had a reputation for accommodating research scientists. He could teach and work on his projects. But he’d refused.
Rose smiled at the memory, though her lips never twitched.
“Able’s Hollow?” Crane had said, his foppish curls falling over his glasses as they walked through the woods surrounding their house. Ahead of them was a small wooden bridge.
“I’ve looked at the statistics,” Rose had said. “Temperate weather—so neither too cold for me in the winter, nor too hot for you in the summer. It’s only an hour from your folks, and less than two from mine . . .”
But he’d f
rowned. “No, Rose.”
“Can you really be so superstitious?”
“My brother still calls me the family’s Ichabod. Ichabod Crane, a teacher and intellectual—”
“I’ve read ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,’ ” she said. Really, she hadn’t; she had seen the movie. “A town’s name is a stupid thing to inhibit us. The university here won’t let you do anything. Six times this week you’ve mentioned you need a new position. We could be happy there.”
“We are happy here.” Crane stepped up onto the bridge, gazing across the stream to where a patch of wild strawberries beckoned them.
“I’d be happier on the other side of the bridge.” Rose dropped his hand and ran over the wooden boards.
Berries filled her memory. They had been the sweetest she ever tasted, often taken from his fingers or lips while the water gurgled at their trespass.
In the distance she heard Crane’s machine turn on—a low whir and several clacks. Those noises didn’t belong in the memory; they belonged to the cold world following Rose’s accident. The stream faded, as did the ghost taste of berries. A clatter of metal on metal.
“I love you so much, Rose. This needle should do it. This will integrate the necessary compound into your system. My life for yours. It should be enough, but there are so many errors. I can’t get the one-to-one ratio I need. And the variation . . . I’m not sure what will happen anymore, but we can’t wait. The process takes six days.” He sighed, a desperate sound. “Six days never seemed so long. Just hold on . . .”
Her consciousness dimmed, was pulled from her. Time passed without her comprehension. It might have been days or weeks. In the emptiness something pricked her arm, shooting rivers of ice with jets of heat through her. The dark boiled, bubbled, and swallowed her.
And then a wave of light hit her. And her eyelids fluttered. Rose stirred inside herself. The dark stripped away, leaving her naked. The back of her heel slammed into a hard surface as she kicked out, and ripples traveled up her body, like a reverberation through gelatin. She lay on her back in a shallow tub, and above her the gray ceiling came into focus.
Rose sat up, her mouth hanging open, flapping as she struggled for air. Color assailed her eyes. Red and green flashed, and all around her a gooey, blue liquid glowed. A few wires snaked through the blue, fixing themselves to her pale flesh.
Once Upon Now Page 9
