Chameleon (The Ripple Series)

by Cidney Swanson

  “I’m so happy, Sam. I just want to … I don’t know. Punch something!” Here he broke off looking overhead and met my eyes. “You know?”

  “Punch something?” I shook my head, laughing. “I have no idea what that means.” The comparison involving boys and rocks resurfaced, but I kept it to myself.

  His face crinkled with concentration. “No, you know what I mean. Like when you’re so full, things just need to explode a little. Like Christmas morning when you’re a kid.”

  I squeezed Will’s hand. “I know that feeling.” It fluttered warm and joyful in my stomach just now. “It’s how I discovered running. When I was little and my grandparents were coming to visit or Mom was making my favorite dinner, I’d feel so full inside. And Mom would send me out to run up and down the block a couple of times.”

  “Exactly,” Will said. “Running right now would be excellent.”

  “No,” I said. “Laying on this couch and recovering from a gunshot wound would be excellent.”

  Will grunted in annoyance.

  I ran my free hand through his thick head of curls. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” I murmured.

  Will brought my hand down from his hair, turning it palm–forward. Then, he brought my palm to his mouth and kissed it long and slow like I was food he needed to stay alive. A shudder ran through me, but I stayed visible.

  He turned his eyes from my hand, resting it upon his chest. A mischievous smile flitted across his face. “I didn’t say we had to run solid, you know.”

  Chapter Twenty–Seven

  RUNNING

  Before Sir Walter returned, Will and I laid plans to sneak out invisibly in the night to go “running” together. At first, I wasn’t at all convinced this was a good idea. It took a lot more kissing, rippling, and solidifying before I agreed. Will was very persuasive.

  “Where should we go?” Will asked, idly running his fingers along my forearm.

  “Somewhere close,” I said. “Carcassonne, maybe?”

  Will frowned. “I was thinking somewhere far. You know, see how far we can get.”

  I shook my head. “Going far is too risky in your condition.”

  “Come on, Sam. Risky? We’ll stay invisible the whole time.” Will reached his good hand around the back of my head and brought me closer ‘til our foreheads touched.

  His voice was low, gravelly, teasing. “I’ll feel so much better when I ripple. Seriously, I’d have no incentive to come solid.” He pulled me in for another long kiss.

  I felt my flesh fade away.

  “Well, except I can’t kiss you when we’re invisible,” Will admitted, laughing.

  I reappeared and sat beside him upon the couch. There was one place I wished I’d been able to share with Will. “At Chenonceau,” I began, “The walls must have been almost two feet thick. I passed through one of them when you thought I’d vanished by accident. Staring at the river.”

  Will slipped an arm around my waist, pulling at me to come closer. I re–seated myself several inches nearer. In the process, I bumped him and his left side pushed uncomfortably into the back of the couch. He winced.

  “I’m so sorry!” I said, easing away.

  “It’s nothing,” Will said. But frown–lines still etched his forehead.

  “You’re a bad liar.”

  “Of course, when we’re kissing, nothing hurts.” he said.

  I guffawed. But I kissed him, too.

  And during that kiss, just before I vanished, Sir Walter rippled solid back inside the cottage.

  Smiling, the French gentleman pretended to be preoccupied with warming his hands at the fire. “Does your patient give you trouble, Mademoiselle Samanthe?”

  Solidifying, I stammered out an answer. “Um, no. He’s … Will’s pretty low–maintenance.” I nodded, trying to look matter–of–fact in my assessment.

  Sir Walter chuckled. “Some methods of nursing are, alas, beyond my ability to provide.”

  I flushed. Will grinned. Sir Walter stepped into the adjoining kitchen area.

  “Ah, the cassoulet has cooked to perfection,” said the French gentleman, hoisting a large ceramic casserole from the oven.

  I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t noticed the rich aroma—thyme, sausage, something cheesy—until now. I checked my cell for the time: seven o’clock; all was dark although I hadn’t noticed the sun setting.

  “Dude, that smells amazing,” said Will.

  “A simple dish of white beans,” said Sir Walter. “Meant for our mid–day meal, but perhaps it will do for our Christmas feast. I fear none of us will last until La Reveille this midnight.”

  “Definitely not,” said Will, yawning in wide–eyed innocence.

  We’d each had thirds by the time Mickie came stumbling down the hall.

  “Couldn’t be troubled to wake me, I see,” she growled in Will’s direction.

  Neither of us mentioned her threat to kill anyone who’d tried.

  Mickie sneezed as she scooped a small bowl for herself. “There’s something bugging me,” she said, addressing Sir Walter. “According to Sam, Dr. Gottlieb brought two henchman along. What happened to the other one?”

  “He sleeps within the mountain,” said Sir Walter. “I left him trapped without substance in the hillside.”

  “He’s, like, stuck in the ground?” Will asked. “Buried alive?”

  Shudders ran around the room.

  “It would be more accurate to say that he is ‘buried asleep.’”

  Will nodded. “Can he … get out?”

  Sir Walter shook his head. “Only a chameleon could regain motion and alertness in that state.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Mickie.

  The French gentleman nodded. “Anyone else whom I have so placed has always been in the same location when I returned. But I do not plan to return for my cousin’s employee anytime soon.”

  “Badass,” murmured Will, nodding.

  Sir Walter smiled. “I am glad it meets with your approval, my young patient. And now, friends, might I suggest we retire? The day has been long for all of us.”

  I cleared my throat. “I could stay out here with Will. Since Mickie’s sick.”

  “A most generous offer,” said Sir Walter, with no hint of irony. But his eyes twinkled. “Myself, I shall spend the evening clothed in my flesh. I always sleep best in the campagne. The ‘countryside,’” he added for Mickie’s benefit.

  Will and I sat silently, me on the couch across from his, as the others traipsed back along the hall.

  After the doors clicked shut, Will spoke. “Five hours sleep and then we go running?”

  I checked my cell. It was only seven–thirty, but I felt sure I could sleep. I fluffed one of the couch pillows.

  “Come here,” said Will, turning on his right side and scooting back into his couch.

  “I’ll hurt you.”

  Will’s mouth broke into a wide smile. “You won’t hurt me.”

  I frowned. The couch looked deeper than a regular couch back home. There might be room.

  “I want you close,” said Will. “In case I need medical attention.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, right.” But I left my own couch and slowly, carefully, slid myself alongside Will’s outstretched form. I felt suddenly awake with his arm holding me close. With his breath warm upon my forehead. With the scent of him—pine and soap and fresh cotton bandages.

  But then I began slipping, drifting down and down into slumber, safe and warm.

  My cell buzzed at 12:30, waking me.

  Will looked alert.

  “Trouble sleeping?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m looking forward to being out–of–body for a while.”

  “You’re hurting.”

  “It’s not that bad. Plus I liked watching your face while you slept. You were deep in some crazy REM sleep just before the alarm went off.” Will brushed hair off my forehead. “Bad dreams or good dreams?” he asked.

  “Good dreams,�
� I said, smiling.

  “Let’s ripple,” whispered Will.

  I started to close my eyes, to focus and calm.

  “Not that way,” said Will, a hint of a laugh in his voice.

  My eyes flew open. Of course not that way! I shifted to bring our lips to the same plane.

  “Mmmmm,” sighed Will, his eyes closing as our lips met.

  His lips felt warm but dry, chapped all over.

  I pulled back. “You’re dehydrated,” I said. “Sir Walter said to drink lots.”

  “I’m … what?”

  “Your lips are cracked. Just here,” I said, touching him softly. “And here.” I sat up to grab Will’s cup of water. “Drink and then we’ll go.”

  “You’re a good care–giver,” said Will.

  “You’re an excellent patient,” I murmured as he set the glass down and pulled me back towards him.

  “How are my lips now?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

  Wet, I thought, catching a drip of water tracing down one side of his mouth. Soft. I sighed. Blissful. I rippled.

  I pulled my face back from Will’s; our hands held tight together still.

  Upon a small sheet of yellow notepad paper, Will wrote: That’s certainly an effective way to help you ripple.

  Quite, I agreed.

  Together, we passed silently across the darkened room and through Sir Walter’s wooden door.

  Oak, I wrote as the delicious smell of one of my home town’s common trees washed through us. Warm, like how it smells in summer back home.

  Yeah, I maybe caught something like that, wrote Will.

  Let’s go! I typed, suddenly feeling that full–to–bursting sense of joy course through me.

  We found the tracks leading north and ran beside them. No. We flew alongside the tracks. That’s what this effortless glide felt like! No friction, no cold, no aching legs or bursting lungs.

  There’s a train ahead, I typed. Let’s pass it!

  And as the moon lit our way and the stars wheeled across the heavens, we passed train after train on our northward journey.

  The stars must feel like this, wrote Will. Hurtling through space, you know?

  Leaving the train tracks at Tours, we ran along quiet roads until we saw the tall trees of Château de Chenonceau flanking a moonlit pathway.

  I’d love to hold your hand here, wrote Will.

  You are holding my hand, dweeb, I typed back.

  You know what I mean.

  I hesitated only a moment. The nearly full moon crested over the château, and I yearned to walk beside Will as well. Just not for too long, I wrote back. Slipping my hand from his, I came solid in the chill night air.

  “It’s cold!” whispered Will, reaching for me.

  We crunched along the avenue, the trees like silent sentinels watching over us.

  The world around us presented a dozen shades of gray: crisp charcoals, soft pewters, steels, ashes, and silvers. And splattered throughout, the intense white of the moon.

  We grew too cold to hold hands, instead pressing our bodies into one another, arms about waists, as we moved towards the castle. Chenonceau! Beautiful by day, it appeared by night both elegant and infinitely mysterious.

  “Kiss me,” Will murmured.

  I lifted my face.

  “Ready for more adventure?” he asked.

  I brought my mouth to his in response.

  Invisible once more, we entered the castle. I led Will up to the tiny ante–room.

  This is the wall I wanted to show you, I typed, fixing my gaze upon the wall that, on its other side, led into the corridor. Pay attention to how many different surfaces we move through.

  Silently, we entered the wall.

  First, furniture–polish: bees–wax–y and something astringent, like lemons. Then the oak, dry, solid, ancient, a hint of long–ago green. Then stone, Will’s favorite. Grains of sand flowing through us, shifting and sifting as we moved through. The scent like riverbank–dirt on a hot summer’s day. Then a dry, chalk–y, dusty smell: plaster, I thought, and then we were through.

  I smelled lemons, wrote Will.

  That’s all?

  Uh, yeah. Was there more? he asked.

  We re–traced our path several more times. By the end of it, Will thought maybe he’d caught a whiff of oak.

  There’s so much more, I wrote. I’m sorry you can’t sense it.

  It’s okay. You described it for me beautifully.

  We found a clock in one of the rooms that told us it was time to return to Sir Walter’s south–of–France cottage.

  Sam, I need to talk to you about something.

  What?

  It’s about next week. When we’re supposed to go home.

  My chest, already invisible, felt suddenly hollow.

  Sir Walter thinks Mickie and I should stay here with him.

  I didn’t type anything back.

  I know, he wrote. Could you—would you—do you think you might stay, too?

  I can’t, I typed. The saddest two words I’d ever sent to him.

  Yeah. Will fell silent.

  There was nothing left to say, so we turned and exited the castle. As we passed through the front door, I thought I could hear the whispered goodbyes of lovers long ago. I paused to listen: it was only the murmur of the wind in the garden.

  Retracing our path to Carcassonne, we ran through the night.

  The sky shifted to dull grey in the east as I turned his words over and over in my mind. Being apart wouldn’t change how we felt. I knew this. Will loved me. I knew this. And I loved him. This, I knew most of all.

  The tiny cottage appeared before us, windows dull and dark. We slipped inside. All was quiet. Will’s hand fell from mine. In the glow cast by dying embers, I saw him materialize upon the couch. His forehead wrinkled as he re–accustomed himself to the ache of his chest.

  I rippled beside him.

  “We’ve got another two days,” I said. Two days in a world where Will loved me? It felt infinite. “Rest, now.” I tugged at a shawl lying over the back of the couch and settled it across Will.

  I sat beside him, holding his good hand until he fell asleep.

  Rising, I trailed back to the room Sir Walter had given me. I had a bit of unfinished business hiding in my suitcase between covers of leather. I pushed my clothes around until I found it. Another something I needed to leave behind with Sir Walter. Helga’s journal.

  Upon returning to the main living area, I found the French gentleman had risen and was preparing strong black coffee and hot chocolate. On the dining table, a brown bag with oily smudges promised fresh croissants.

  “Good morning, Sir Walter,” I said.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” he replied, eyebrows raised as he accepted the book I gave to him.

  “It’s the one Will and I stole from Helga’s office,” I explained.

  “Indeed,” said the Frenchman. He paged through. “Fascinant!”

  “What?” asked Will, eyes fluttering awake.

  “I just gave him Helga’s journal,” I explained, crossing to sit beside Will. “And you should be sleeping.”

  “I feel great,” said Will. Smiling, he took my hand in his. “Hey, did you hear Sir Walter recovered a flash–drive and two other journals from Helga’s car?”

  It hadn’t occurred to me she’d come by car. But the non–rippler henchman would have made that necessary. “What’d Sir Walter do with her car?”

  “Drove it beside the burnt–out Citroën and buried them together,” replied Will.

  “He couldn’t exactly keep it, I suppose,” I said.

  “Incroyable,” murmured Sir Walter beside us in the kitchen.

  “Sounds like her journal means something to him, anyway,” Will said.

  “Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu,” said Sir Walter.

  “Guess so,” I agreed.

  The French gentleman crossed into our part of the room and busied himself with stoking the fire. “C’est impossible,” he mumbl
ed, striking a match.

  “What’s impossible?” Will mouthed the words, looking at me.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  When Sir Walter had coaxed a blaze out of the embers and fresh logs, he turned and sat upon the couch opposite Will and me. He blinked several times as though to prevent tears from spilling.

  “My dear Samanthe,” he began. He broke off, however, as if unable to continue. He took a slow breath. “My very dear young lady, might I enquire whether you are still determined upon making the return voyage to your home?”

  “I have to,” I said simply.

  “Quite, quite.” He looked away, as if to collect thoughts that had fled to the far side of the window. “In that event, might I be allowed to make certain arrangements to ensure your safety?”

  My brows pulled together. “Um, sure, I guess.”

  “Absolutely, yes,” said Will, his grip upon my hand tightening uncomfortably.

  “Good, good, good,” said Sir Walter. “I shall return shortly.” Having said this, he rippled.

  “What do you suppose he meant by that?” I asked.

  Will shrugged. “With Sir Walter? Who knows. Maybe he has a nuclear arsenal at his disposal.”

  Mickie joined us and together we enjoyed croissants, coffee and hot chocolate. I was clearing off the table when we heard voices outside.

  Mickie froze beside her brother. “Don’t answer the door,” she whispered.

  “They’re going for the woodpile,” I said, recognizing the sound of the creaking door enclosing logs for the fire. I looked through the sheer curtains.

  “It’s just Sir Walter and some friend,” I said.

  Mickie crossed to the window beside me. “Wow. A very buff friend.”

  Will chuckled. “Maybe he’s hired you a bodyguard, Sam!”

  “Very funny,” I said.

  A moment later, when Sir Walter and the stranger entered carrying logs, Sir Walter began introductions. “Mesdemoiselles Mackenzie Baker and Samantha Ruiz, Monsieur Will Baker, allow me to introduce Monsieur Chrétien Sebastien FitzWaldhart de Rochefort.”

  The young man with the long name executed an extremely deep and complex bow. Mickie snorted. Will and I raised our eyebrows in tandem.

  Chapter Twenty–Eight