I’m a dog with a bone in my efforts to call out to him, reassure him that I’m here, I’m okay, that he hasn’t lost me, but I’m so tired. It’s so hard to even keep my eyes open. Why can’t he feel me? Know I’m awake? He’s not that far away.
“I’m sorry.” Kate sounds as broken as the rest of them. “So sorry. I wish I knew what to tell you. What to do. Her body is healed—it’s just her mind. And I can’t get in there; none of us can.”
Why do they keep insisting something is wrong with my mind? I’m ... I have thoughts. I’m tired, yes, but I can think and remember. I’m cognizant.
Aren’t I?
“Sweetling,” Astrid is murmuring, once more reaching out for her son, “let’s go and get some tea. You’ve finally gotten Jonah to get some sleep; you don’t want to wake him, do you? Of course Kate will try again. They all will do their best for Chloe. Kate just wanted to ...” But she chokes off in a sob, too, her hands covering her face. Cameron steps forward, his arms going around her, and the next thing I know, Callie bites out something about this all being bullshit and what the point of being a Magical is if you can’t even fix a person, before she bolts from the room. Will lets loose a string of nearly indecipherable curses and then goes out after her.
I’m here, I want to tell them. I’m okay. Stop arguing. I’m okay. I’m awake. Why can’t Kellan tell that? He’s always been so in tune with me.
Eventually, he storms out of the room after one last well-placed shot at Kate’s ineptitude. “I’m sorry,” the Shaman whispers to her best friend and Cameron. “I’m trying; you know I am.”
“I know. I know,” Astrid says softly. Within a minute, they all leave, too.
None of them knew I was awake.
I lay in stunned silence, forcing myself not to give into my swelling exhaustion while simultaneously grappling with the insanity pinning me down to this bed. I remember it all. I’m not confused. I’m here because I was brutally attacked. I’ve been asleep for ... five days. Jens—no, not Jens—somebody who looks like Jens put that awful sound in my head after shattering my hands and other bones in my body and somehow or other, the Shamans weren’t able to fix me? That there’s something wrong with my mind? That there might be those who believe me beyond saving?
I attempt to disseminate all of this rationally as I ground myself by matching Jonah’s soft yet steady breathing. I’m not dead. This is a good thing. If I were to die, the worlds would fall into chaos. My friend Etienne Miscanthus, one of the premier Storytellers on the Council, has repeatedly told me how a living Creator is crucial for the worlds’ functionability. I’ve survived multiple Elders attacks—been stabbed, cut, and beat up—and I always got back up on my feet. But one person, this one being who looks like Jens Belladonna but isn’t, managed to take me out so easily. What stopped him from killing me? He’d alluded to how it wasn’t my time, but ... he also didn’t shy away from nearly tearing my life out of me, either.
Like a flood breaching a dam’s walls, all the memories of that horrible night come crashing right over me and drag me into its undertow of clarity. I’d been so happy. Despite its bittersweet origins, my happiness was incandescent. Jonah and I—that was the start of our life together. The one we chose to share together. And then in a singular moment, somebody decided to try to rip it all away from me.
I’ll be damned if I let that happen. I didn’t fight so hard to find and accept my happiness only to lose it so easily. I redouble my efforts to voice Jonah’s name, to let him know I’m here. And when that doesn’t work, I focus instead on our connected hands. On the Connection that we share. Wake up, love, I want to say to him. I need you right now. Feel me.
I will myself to squeeze harder until my breaths come hard in exertion, all over such a simple action an infant could accomplish it. Move, I order my body. Whatever happened to me? Whatever that bastard did? It’s gone. I’m me. I’m in control of myself.
Somewhere deep within me, something shatters painfully alongside the windows throughout the room. My entire body convulses in nine-point-oh magnitudes and aftershocks, all dying, twitching fish desperate for water on dry, barren shores.
Jonah jolts awake during my combined seizure and destruction of glass, lurching up in the bed to straddle me as my eyes roll deep into the back of my head. I’m choking, I can’t breathe, I’m falling apart and crashing and dying all over again, and he’s got my face in his hands, saying my name again, and this time—
This time when he orders me to look at him, to stay with him, I’m able to.
My body aches, like it’d been at the bottom of the ocean, anchored with heavy chains to a two thousand pound anchor. Tiny tremors rattle my teeth and my muscles and bones, threatening to split me clean apart and drag me back down, but his hold on me is strong. The blue of his eyes is sky and water and love and I refuse to let go.
“You’re safe.” He hauls my twitching body into his arms. “I’ve got you, Chloe.”
For the tiniest moment, I let myself sink into his warmth as the tremors fade, into his solid, steady comfort before I completely lose it. Hot tears gush out amidst eerily noiseless sobs as my arms weakly loop around him, but it’s okay. I trust him. I’m safe. I’m here with Jonah, and I’m not dying. Or, at least, not dying today.
He tells me ridiculous things, like how he’s so sorry he wasn’t there for me when whatever happened to me happened, how he feels like he failed me, and how he’ll never let it happen again. He’s so relieved I’m awake, and he loves me, and while I dismiss all of his misplaced fear and frustration, I hold on tightly to those last words.
The door bursts open, and Kellan’s here, wide-eyed and worried and hopeful all at the same time. He ignores the glass littering the room and instead stares at us for about three seconds before murmuring, “Thank the gods.” And then he collapses back against the wall, a shaky hand running through his hair.
The room fills with my loved ones within minutes, which is wonderful and sweet yet exhausting all at once. So much of me wants to just spend time right now with Jonah. With Kellan. To prove to them I’m okay, that they haven’t lost me ... but I suppose when a Creator has been down for the count for nearly a week, her personal desires must take a backseat to everyone else’s.
There’s chatter in the hallway, rubberneckers, too, all curious whether a bomb went off a few minutes prior while wanting to get a glimpse of the sideshow freak of a Creator. Right when my anxiety is ready to dive into a tailspin, the man I’ve come to consider to be my father quickly closes the door. Words of gratitude fail me once more, my mouth open with nothing but soft, wordless sounds escaping, so Jonah is the one to thank him.
“Of course, hen,” Cameron murmurs. And I am appreciative—even more so over how Jonah instinctually knew I wanted to say something but couldn’t. So much gratitude for him fills me up, too.
Kellan is immediately on his phone, telling Zthane Nightstorm, the head of the Guard, that the hospital needs to be cleared of gawkers, and that I’m finally awake. My gratitude meter is ready to spill over.
“Why isn’t she able to talk?” Will demands, and I want to take his hand and let him know it’s okay. He is, after all, the person who helped me finally open up after months—years—of holding too much in. Will Dane is the best kind of friend a girl could ever have.
I want to hug him. Hug them all.
“That’s an excellent question,” Kate murmurs as she bends over me. She’s insisted on checking me out; under protest, I’ve refused to let go of Jonah’s hand as she does so. I need the anchor, need the reassurance that I won’t be stumbling back into the darkness the moment he lets go.
It takes effort, but I manage to tap my throat meaningfully. Kate must understand, because she says, “All of the damage was repaired, Chloe. Physically, there isn’t anything medically wrong with you right now.”
“Thank the gods,” Astrid says, reaching out for Cameron’s hand.
Five days, I think, is a long time, because something must have happ
ened between them. Not that I’m complaining—nobody would be happier than me to see Cameron and Astrid find their way back to each other, but it’s just ... the last time I saw them together, they were slow dancing their way through reacquainting themselves through dinners, coffee, and lunches, often in the guise of family events so all of us kids were there, too. And here they are, holding hands, and I am pleased and frustrated all at the same time.
What a clever little Creator you are, thinking you can break the hold I have on you so easily, a voice in my mind says as Kate continues to list off areas she’s checked. And here I was, fretting you were nothing but weakness, that it would take me months to recondition you to be what I need.
It’s not Caleb, the fairy who spent most of my life in my head as my Conscience. It’s—
Convulsions wrack my body once more, and I think people are yelling and scared, and I’m being pinned down, but oh my gods—oh my gods—I am nothing but pain. I want to fight, try to fight, but it’s sososohardtofocus.
That sound, the one that tore my mind apart back in the restaurant a week ago, refills my ears. Panic, sharp and defined in the midst of so much agony, laces tightly through my muscles. Part of me wants to just give in, to sink back into the murky depths I’d been wallowing in, but another part also remembers I’m a Creator. I’m the strongest of all Magicals. I cannot allow myself to take this lying down. I kick against those depths, claw like a rabid dog fighting for her sole survival. Get out of my head, I screamscreamscream inside. Get out. GET OUT!
The noise, the convulsions, and pain stop, leaving me exhaustion personified.
When the world comes into focus, I find Jonah once more over me, his hands on my face as he orders me to stay with him. Kellan is here, too, so is Will, and they’re holding down my arms and legs and—wait. They’re on their knees and all around us are pieces of bed and ceiling and wall.
I’ve destroyed the room.
I must have cried (albeit silently) myself to sleep. I flat out bawled once more in Jonah’s arms, admittedly hysterical until I hiccupped and then ... darkness, but I suppose it was the good kind, the soft kind that doesn’t weigh you down and threaten to drown you in its promises of abeyance.
So when I wake up again this time, I’m groggy and achy but determined to hold onto my sanity. I’m also glad to discover the room (which is apparently different than the last, as it’s not in ruins) only holds the twins and me. Jonah’s sitting on the bed, clutching my hand, while Kellan perches on a chair pulled up so close it’s touching the covers as they talk to one another their way—both in their heads and out loud, so anybody listening will be confused as to what’s going on. I take a small moment to study them; both are haggard and clearly drained. It’s obvious neither has shaved in days. Jonah’s hair—longer than his brother’s and normally slightly messy, anyway—shows signs of utter neglect. Honestly, though, Kellan’s is no better. Their clothes are rumpled and neglected, which isn’t like either of them in the least. And that’s the thing—they both look so utterly weary, so worn out, that my trusty old friend Guilt raises its ugly head within me.
It’s an emotion that does me no good, though. So I fight it back and squeeze Jonah’s hand to let him know I’m awake.
He shifts to face me. “Are you okay?” There’s so much relief in his eyes. “Are you in pain?”
Silly man. The two most powerful Emotionals to ever live are in this room with me; if I were in pain, I’m pretty sure they would know.
I’m finally able to find my voice, even though it’s barely a whisper. “No.”
He closes his eyes briefly and kisses the back of my hand while Kellan stands up and pushes the chair back. “Are you sure?”
Huh?
“You don’t have to block us.” He stands next to his brother, arms crossed. “We just need to know if you’re okay.”
Again, huh? “I’m not.”
A look passes between them, one that leaves me uneasy.
“You can’t feel me?”
Another look passes; surely now they must feel my anxiety. My vision blurs, but before I can break down again, Jonah kisses my hand once more and says, “Don’t worry about this, honey. We just want to make sure you’re not in pain.”
It’s one thing to block the twins purposely. But ... if they’re not feeling me at all, what does that mean? “There’s no pain,” I whisper. Just fear. “What happened?”
There’s a long stretch of silence in which I am positive they are discussing what to say, if anything. As scared as I am, though, I want to know everything. “Tell me.”
Kellan scratches the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Kate thinks you had a seizure, but she doesn’t know why.”
A seizure. Ha. Yes, I had a seizure, if that’s what you call somebody in my head torturing me with some godsawful sound that liquefies brains. I root around for the sensation I once was aware of, back when Caleb was my Conscience, but as far as I can tell, the only voice inside me is my own. “I’m all better now, right?”
When neither answers me, I squeeze Jonah’s hand as tightly as I can. “Please tell me.”
I hate how tortured he looks right now, how impossibly sad and frustrated he must feel. “We don’t know.” He looks up at his brother again; Kellan is motionless as he watches us. “Kate says nothing’s physically wrong with you. She can’t find a reason for anything that’s happened.”
This just doesn’t make sense to me. She’s the Council’s lead Shaman. Kate Blackthorn is the best of the best.
“What happened in the restaurant, C?” Kellan asks. “Do you remember who did this to you?”
Unfortunately, I remember it all too well. I’m unable to stop the waterworks from racing down my cheeks toward my chin when I nod yes.
Jonah wipes them away with his thumb. “Who did this, love?”
It’s the truth and yet a lie when I tell them, “Jens.”
They’re both incredulous. Kellan bursts out with, “Jens Belladonna?”
I nod again, ready to clarify, but Kellan rounds on Jonah, saying, “Jens is classified as missing. Has been missing for well over a year. Is there something the Council knows that the Guard doesn’t? Because as far as I’m aware, nobody’s been able to find that asshole in ages.”
I reach out and touch Jonah’s face. “Re-remember?”
He turns back toward me, clearly confused and wary at the same time.
“At the store.” I swallow, wishing I could just turn up the volume already without it feeling like nails are tearing the lining of my throat. “I saw Jens outside?”
“What is she talking about?” Kellan demands, but Jonah must remember, because his beautiful, tanned face goes white.
“You told me,” he says, words as soft as mine. “You said he was watching you. And I—”
I know what he’s about to do, so I cut him off at the pass. “Don’t you dare blame yourself.”
“You knew he was here and didn’t tell me?” Kellan hisses to his brother.
Jonah tries to stand up, but I refuse to let go of him with the little energy I have. He runs his free hand across his face; I don’t have to be an Emotional to know that he’s blaming himself right now. He’s probably thinking ridiculous thoughts to himself like had he just, I don’t know, listened? No—not listened, believed me, maybe ...? But I don’t blame him. I probably wouldn’t have believed me, either. If the best Trackers in the worlds couldn’t find the former head of the Guard, why would we have assumed he’s here, in Annar?
“You were so sure,” Jonah says, and it’s agony to hear just how tortured he sounds, “and ... I knew you felt certain, but ...”
He’s being so stupid. “No blame.” And then, more gently, “It’s not Jens.”
I’ve just confused them all the more, because they’re looking like they’re ready to call Kate in to have my head examined again. “I think ... somebody is in Jens.” Another swallow. “Or like Jens. But that wasn’t him.”
Neither seems to know w
hat to say. And I get it, because what I’ve just said is pretty bonkers. So I clarify, “He could do Magic. Like me.”
“What do you mean, like you?” Jonah asks, and as much as I hate even thinking about it, I force myself to go straight back to that restaurant’s bathroom.
I’d ripped the stall doors off to throw at the Jens-person. He’d put them right back on. He’d called me Little Creator. Told me appearances were always deceiving. Said he knew I was clever enough to figure out who he really was, that we’d been playing a game together for some time now.
I dig further into the memory. His skin wasn’t right. It felt like ... paper, in a way. His eyes weren’t right, either. Or the voice. It wasn’t Jens’ voice. I know what Jens Belladonna sounds like, unfortunately. He accused me of so many things after I joined the Council I can still dredge up the exact tones and lilts of his voice. This person sounded nothing like him. The accent was different, one I’ve never heard before. It sounded ... old.
It wasn’t Jens, of that I’m sure. But who could do such a thing? I’m the only Creator in exis—
No. Nonononono. Please let me be wrong. Please.
Jonah says my name again, forcing me to stuff my fears down for the moment. Me freaking out again will do nobody any good. So I think logically about all of this. I tap my head and tell him to surge so he can see for himself what happened. I mean, I know both men respect me enough to normally not surge without permission and all, but I would’ve figured they’d have viewed me being attacked as a special exception and just gone ahead and done it already.
Another small look passes between the twins. What now?
“We can’t.” Jonah’s frustration is nearly tangible. “And it isn’t for lack of trying.”
What?
“I tried while you were asleep.” My eyes track down to his free hand as he says this; his knuckles are white as he unconsciously clenches them in and out of a fist. This is not a good sign. “We both did, just to see if you were okay.”
A Matter of Forever (Fate #4) Page 2
