“Just okay?”
She shrugged. Why the hell was he acting like he cared, anyway? He was just one in a long line of interim administrators. The stress of working with a school full of insane teenagers every day ran most of them off pretty quick. This one had that eager zeal—all too happy to pick her brain—and he probably wouldn’t last long either.
Dean Nelson set down the papers. “I know I’m new here, but in order to conduct your evaluation, you need to answer my questions.”
The two board members flanking him shifted in their seats. Zanya's breath sped up. Damn it. If she didn’t want to be sedated again, she’d have to keep the panic attack at bay.
She shut her eyes and listened for the notes from her memory to soothe her mind. Ludwig van Beethoven’s violin concert in D major, Op. 61—Larghetto. That piece always slowed her heart rate. She imagined the sounds pouring out of her violin as she drew in deep breaths. The music played in her head, her fingers caressing imaginary strings.
Dean Nelson cleared his throat, jarring her out of the melody. Annoyance tugged at her, but at least she could breathe again.
She lifted her chin. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“How are you managing the panic attacks? Have you had any recently?”
“Yeah. I had one last night...and the night before.”
“They’re becoming more frequent?”
If he had bothered to actually read her case file instead of just skimming through it, he’d already know the answer. “Not really. Pretty much the same.”
“And how are you sleeping?”
“Like usual.”
“It says in your case file you suffer from night terrors. Are you still experiencing them?”
Zanya shrugged.
Dean Nelson frowned. “Okay. Let’s talk a little about The Man. Is he still hurting you?”
The mention of him made the hairs on Zanya's arms twitch. She pulled her sleeve over the blue and yellow bruise that encompassed her wrist. This team of board-certified, renowned medical professionals didn’t know the first thing about what could be found in her dreams.
“Zanya,” Dean Nelson prompted in a stern tone.
They claimed she suffered from severe anxiety and night terrors. They had no idea. The knots in her stomach tightened. She balled her fists, but stayed quiet.
After all, what could she say? If she told them the man in her dreams hurt her almost every night, they would continue to believe she was delusional. If she lied and told them she hurt herself, it would only confirm their misdiagnosis. She’d just tell the truth and prove both theories correct.
“He’s always in my dreams,” she whispered, flashes from her nightmares reeling through her mind. “He’s always waiting for me.”
Dean Nelson frowned. “But you do understand that a dream cannot hurt you? Dreams are simply images, feelings, and sensations that collect and pool involuntarily in your mind during sleep. They can seem very real, but once you wake up, they’re gone. A simple figment of your imagination.”
Zanya fidgeted nervously with the sleeve of her uniform, twisting a seam that had come undone.
“And dreams certainly don’t leave bruises or any of the other alarming wounds Nurse Faber has found on you over the years.” He flashed photos taken during Zanya's countless visits to the hospital.
“I guess.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, forgetting about the fresh gash on the back of her hand—evidence of last night’s brawl with a demon of some sort.
Nurse Faber leaned forward in her seat and peered at the swollen wound. “Where did you get that cut? I haven’t seen that, and it needs to be treated—maybe with stitches.”
Dean Nelson frowned. “Then perhaps we should continue this patient’s evaluation once we get an updated report of her physical condition.”
The nurse stood and waved Zanya to her feet. “Come on, honey. Let’s get that taken care of.”
* * *
The stone sat high on the altar’s peak, as it always did, glowing like a beacon in the darkness. Its whispers echoed in Zanya's mind, guiding her blind footsteps. It drew her in with some invisible tether, a connection she couldn’t explain. She never understood why she searched for it.
Longed for it.
Needed it.
With each careful step, her bare feet padded over the cool, smooth steps. Then another source of light flickered on, causing a soft glow around her.
The light churned out from her chest, pulsing with hues of blue and white—colors of recognition. The stone and the illumination in her chest seemed to be connected; only flickering to life when they were close.
At the temple’s base, she steadily ascended the narrow steps until she reached the peak. Zanya cupped the stone in both hands and lifted it from its perch. Orbs of light twinkled over its smooth surface.
Searing pain tore through her belly. She gasped and jolted forward, then wrapped shaky fingers around a blade protruding from her gut. Scarlet liquid slowly seeped through her shirt. The stone dropped from her hand and thudded to the alter, rolling down one step at a time until it reached the bottom. The twinkles of light vanished.
Zanya stumbled toward it, her hand gripping her belly. When she reached the bottom of the temple, she fell to her knees and helplessly curled into a fetal position. The edges of her vision became fuzzy. Darkness closed in while she stared helplessly at the stone.
Warmth cradled her body. Death was warm. She’d always heard dying would be peaceful, like slipping away into serenity. With her cheek rested against the cold ground, warm liquid saturated the ground beneath her.
A slithering creature slinked toward her, its eyes as black as onyx. Thousands of legs stuck into the ground, pushing its armored body forward.
It was not a creature Zanya would soon forget, as the last time she encountered it, it had killed her—again.
The Man had to be lingering somewhere nearby. His bitter scent whirled through the air. His footsteps grew louder as he approached.
Not again. She lay like a suffocating fish, gulping in her final breaths.
Zanya jerked awake and shot up in bed, gasping for air. She clawed at her chest where a thin mark etched her skin. It burned, as if someone had pressed a cattle brand to the delicate curve between her breasts. She moaned, willing away the pain. It never took longer than a half hour, but it hurt, and this time, it nearly made her cry.
Zanya glanced at a clock mounted to the far wall that read three thirty. She wouldn’t be able to sleep for the rest of the night. She laid back down in bed and rolled onto her side, searching for a hint that Tara was awake. Only a few feet separated their beds. Tara was the only person in the world who understood her.
Tara shifted in bed and Zanya caught a glimpse of her face—her angelic, freckled cheeks, rosy and flawless, under dark auburn lashes. Tara yanked the thin blanket over her shoulders and under her chin.
Zanya whispered, “Are you awake?” After a moment of silence, she sighed and exercised her only option—to stare at the ceiling and wait for the morning community alarm.
At six o’clock sharp, the bell sounded. Tara blinked open her eyes. With a sleepy stare, her lips tightened and she let out a deep sigh. “Another nightmare?”
“What else is new? That’s the third one this week.” Zanya rolled on her side to face her. “At least it wasn’t accompanied by a midnight panic attack this time.” Zanya touched the now faded mark on her chest. “They’re getting worse.”
“Any real-life damage?”
Zanya shook her head. “Not this time.”
The day unwound as usual. Secular studies followed by a mid-day group therapy session, journal entry writing, and their afternoon dose of medications.
Zanya found her last class of the day and ascended to the fourth row in the music room. Miss Lippard must have been sick. A sub had written his name on the stand-alone chalkboard in the front of the class: Dr. Fitzgerald.
Zanya slumped against the chair, pinching her violin
case between her feet.
Great, another doctor. He’d be watching the students during class, assessing, trying to pick out which students needed more psych work. “Patient B843 has the beginning symptoms of early onset Diogenes Syndrome, and patient A119 seems to be suffering from clinical depression, brought on by early childhood trauma, abuse, or neglect.” Blah, blah, blah. Ugh, she hated doctors.
Tara skipped in, holding her clarinet; an instrument she wasn’t particularly good at. All students were required to take up an instrument. Apparently, music helped to express emotion and heal physiological damage. That might be true, but it had never helped heal Zanya. She played out of pure love.
Tara sat beside her. “Hey.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “New teacher?”
“Just a sub. Miss Lippard is out sick. I needed to ask her a question about our sheet music.” Zanya leaned forward and propped her elbows on her knees. “I guess I’ll have to wait.”
“Yeah. The sub probably doesn’t know a thing about music, anyway.”
“Well, just try not to be,” she waved her hand in the air, “yourself. I don’t want him picking your brain.”
Tara grinned. “Afraid he’ll discover what a genius I am?”
“More like what a—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Tara puckered her lips, then smiled.
Once the bell rang, Dr. Fitzgerald made his way to the center of the room. A tailed sports coat hugged his tall, lean frame. His skin—like dark caramel—complemented his dark brown eyes. Handsome for a middle-aged man, and she tried to imagine what he might have looked like twenty years ago.
He locked his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. Zanya sat up straight as the room fell silent.
“Good morning,” he said in a charming Spanish accent. “As I’m sure you have already noticed, your teacher is out for the day. Everyone please get your books and arrange into groups.” He pointed to several areas of the large music room as he spoke. “Strings in the upper right corner, percussion in the lower left, and winds in the center. I understand from Miss Lippard’s instructions the advanced strings students are working on a piece, Canon Pachelbel in D Major. Those students, please break off to the lower right corner. Everyone else, practice your sheet music.”
Violin in hand, Zanya descended the stairs, the soles of her shoes catching on the Berber carpet with each downward step. Canon. She rolled her eyes. If the other advanced students practiced more often, they’d be on to something more interesting by now.
She reached the right corner of the room and took her place at first chair. With the rest of her group ready, she tucked the chinrest delicately in place.
Her fingers relaxed, and she held the bow with balance rather than tension. Her pinkie pinched against the frog, loosely cradling it in her hand, her index finger draped over the top.
Just holding the sleek wooden tool made her breath rhythmic. It was a rare feeling—peace. But with her violin cradled against her and the familiar strings calling out, all her fears melted away.
She drew in a cleansing breath and began to play. The notes pulsed through her body. Much like her blood, the music fed life to parts that lay dormant, hiding away from the realities of life.
She became lost in the melody while each note stirred her heart and awoke her senses. The darkness, the pain, it all stepped back, overpowered by the light and energy of the notes. Music was always there to fill the space in her heart that she had locked away.
With one final pass over the strings, the vibrato left her with a feeling of drunken satisfaction. Her muscles relaxed as she exhaled and opened her eyes, then lowered her arm to her side.
Dr. Fitzgerald watched her intently. His gaze did not waver as she sat motionless, returning his stare. She sucked in a breath. He peered into her. Through her.
The bell rang, and she slinked out of the room, avoiding eye contact with the sub.
* * *
Weekends weren’t much fun at the institution. To kill time, Tara sometimes told Zanya stories about what normal kids did on Friday nights. Parties, bonfires, sleepovers. Teenage girls painting each other’s toenails, their polished feet later dressed in fuzzy slippers, and blushed cheeks that accompanied stories about a boy and a kiss.
None of that happened here. And although religion was only taught for educational purposes in their institution, Zanya often felt like she was stuck in purgatory. Long, terrifying nights. Tedious, drawn-out days that always ended in the same way.
Someday it would be different. Someday, things would change.
“Lights out in fifteen minutes,” the dorm mother announced, shuffling through the sleeping quarters. Her shoes squeaked against the tile with every step. “Let’s go, ladies,” she shouted, clapping to gain everyone’s attention. “Get changed and into bed.”
Zanya snatched her pajamas and slipped into the bathroom. When she came out, all but the backlights were switched off. The soft glow cast over the room painted tall shadows of headboards on the walls.
After settling in bed, she braced herself on the edge and leaned over to inspect the dark space beneath her mattress.
“There’s nothing under there,” Tara whispered.
Zanya glanced up. “I know.”
“No, you don’t, or you wouldn’t be checking.”
Zanya's attention returned to the dark space. If Tara only knew what could be hiding in the darkness, though it was best she didn’t. Zanya liked that her friend wasn’t taunted by the same horrifying images she was every night. It gave her someone to talk to. Someone who made her feel normal.
A shudder crawled up her arms and down her spine. “There’s no harm in checking.”
Tara played with the corner of her pillow. “There’s plenty of harm, Zanya. The board will never place you with a foster family if you don’t show them you’re getting better.”
“Who said I want a foster family? Besides, I have you. You’re all the family I need.” Zanya slipped under the over-starched sheets.
The lights shut off and the room fell silent. Zanya closed her eyes, wishing, praying, that just for one night she would sleep peacefully.
The fire alarm sounded. Bright red-and-white emergency lights cast color over the room. The screaming sirens sent every student shooting out of bed. Staff members flooded the sleeping quarters, rounding up the children and shouting instructions to form a line and exit the building.
Zanya jumped up and followed Tara to the back door and down a ramp, which lead them outside onto the damp ground. She hugged herself. Her breath flowed from her lips in clouds of white.
Emergency vehicles sped down the gravel driveway. They skidded to a halt, and a team of firemen loaded with gear poured out of the trucks.
While Zanya watched the men in uniform, a strange sensation tugged at the back of her mind. Her eyes narrowed. Shivers quaked through her muscles. She blinked and huddled against Tara as a stretcher was unfolded from an ambulance.
“Oh, crap!” Tara’s eyes grew wide. “Do you think someone got hurt? I hope it’s not another suicide attempt. I swear to God...”
As Tara rambled on, Zanya couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching her. She glanced over her shoulder at the tree line of the forest—aspen and beech trees sprinkled between a thick blanket of fallen leaves. But there was nothing. No one.
She turned back around, the bitter cold biting at her toes. She hadn’t thought to put on her slippers, and the soles of her feet were paying a heavy price. She balanced on one foot, then the other.
“I mean, if every kid here who hated their lives tried to kill themselves, we’d have nobody left,” Tara continued to rant. “Just two more years and I’m so outta here.”
A whisper, from what seemed like far away, gently caressed Zanya's ears. She glanced over her shoulder at the tops of frail trees swaying under the moonlight. Leaves danced across the soggy ground, blown by gusts of freezing wind. She rubbed her arms.
Maybe it was just the wind
. Through the branches, it could sound like a whisper. As she prepared to chalk it up to fatigue and chaos, she spotted a tiny shadow lurking between the trees.
Zanya gripped her arms tighter. She blinked once, twice... Her eyes watered from the cold. When she blinked again, the shadow was gone. She spun back around, determined to ignore any more noises.
The image of the tiny shadow pulsed in her mind. Another whisper. Zanya's heart raced. The urge to look grew stronger, and when she finally collected the nerve, she turned around one last time. The figure stood motionless just beyond the first row of trees. Not just a figure, but a girl in a thin, white nightgown with her hands at her sides.
Zanya grabbed Tara’s arm and tugged on her sleeve. “Turn around.”
Tara’s attention was solely focused on the broad-chested firemen. Zanya tugged harder. “Turn around and look at this.”
“Zanya, you’re hurting me.” She finally obeyed. Tara followed Zanya's attention toward the trees, and gasped. “What the hell is she doing out there?”
Zanya shook her head. Without saying another word, Tara stalked toward the woods.
“Wha... Where are you going?” Zanya’s voice cracked, her gaze flickering between Tara and the little girl.
“To get her.” When Zanya didn’t reply, Tara stopped and spun around. “Well? Are you coming?”
“Am I coming?” The dark suddenly consumed her. “I can’t. You know I hate the dark. And there could be...” She searched her mind frantically for some epic excuse to keep Tara from taking another step. “Wolves.”
Wolves? That was the best she could come up with?
Tara snorted. “It’s fine, Zanya. I’ll go alone. It’ll only take a sec.”
Zanya shifted her weight as Tara walked toward the shadowed figure standing eerily motionless in the woods.
“I...I...” Zanya forced her feet to uproot from the ground and rushed to catch up. “I’ll come with you.”
Tara grinned when she finally caught up. “Being eaten by a hungry pack of wolves is still better than being stuck in this loony bin by yourself, huh?”
Zanya's eyes widened. She’d made the wolf thing up, but what if...
Ishel (The Stone Legacy Series, #1) Page 5
