The Awakening

by K. E. Ganshert

  Leela shifts around to look at me.

  There are so many things I want to say. So many thank you’s I want to give, ones that far exceed what Leela has done for us today. Before her, I didn’t know what it was like to have a friend. She’s the best one I could have ever asked for. With a lump in my throat, I lean forward between the two front seats and wrap my arms around her neck. “I should have told you everything from the beginning.”

  She squeezes back. “I understand why you didn’t.”

  When we finally let go, her eyes are watery, only there’s no onion in sight. “You’ll be back, okay? Somehow, this will all get worked out and you’ll come back.”

  Leela, the eternal optimist.

  I want to believe her. So I cling to that hope with everything I’ve got, reach into the front pouch of my backpack, and pull out three letters. One for my mom. One for my dad. One for Pete. “These are for my family. Can you make sure they get them?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “I won’t get caught. I’ll wait until Pete comes back to school and find a way to slip them to him.”

  The thought makes me smile. Perhaps this is the silver lining. Maybe this fiasco will bring my best friend and my kid brother together. Maybe Leela will get to know the real Pete, the one unencumbered by darkness. The one who is not moody or taciturn or dark, but the one who is lighthearted and charming and the life of every party. How much more will she fall in love with that Pete? Somehow, with this possibility in mind, it doesn’t feel so much like I’m losing Leela. It feels a little bit like she’s becoming a part of our family. I wrap my arms around her neck again. “Best friends?”

  “Always,” she whispers.

  After one final squeeze, I climb out of the car and close the door softly behind me. Luka grabs my hand, threading his fingers with mine, and leads me to the ticket booth. I don’t look back.

  Chapter Eight

  Resurrected Pills

  I’m twenty-one-year-old Lily Evans. He is twenty-five-year-old Jacob Denton. And if anybody asks, we’re running away to New York to elope. I’m supposed to text into the phone Luka purchased from Walgreens and do my best impersonation of bored while he purchases our tickets. The key is hiding my face as much as possible without being obvious about it.

  He asks for the tickets to New York City. They are twice as expensive, but we don’t care. If anybody discovers we got onto a Greyhound bus, this will lead them to the east coast. But we will be in Detroit, one of the many stops along the way.

  “Identification, please.” The ticket lady is a beady-eyed woman who speaks in an impatient, annoyed voice. Like the customers who keep her employed are one giant inconvenience.

  My stomach knots into a small, tight fist as I dig through my backpack in search of an ID that is right there. The feigned flightiness is all part of the plan. Luka thinks that looking unprepared will make us appear less suspicious. I pull it out after a couple seconds and hand it over with a breathless apology. I make brief eye contact with the lady, then quickly retreat to my phone, letting my short hair fall in front of my face.

  Seconds upon seconds tick by.

  I imagine her looking from the IDs—to us—the IDs—to us. The fist in my stomach clenches tighter. What if she’s an avid news watcher? What if she’s been on the lookout for Teresa Ekhart—a deranged and dangerous fugitive. What if, after all this work, we’re caught before we even escape? I’m positive she’s on to us. I’m sure she’s pushing some sort of emergency protocol button beneath the counter and at any second we’ll be surrounded by police wielding guns and shouting for us to put our hands up. And all I can do is stand there, typing fake texts into a cheap phone.

  Finally, the woman speaks. “Cash or credit?”

  Luka slips some bills from his wallet and slides them over the counter.

  She hands him the tickets, the change, and our IDs.

  Luka thanks her, then takes my hand and leads me toward the bus we will be boarding, casually swinging my arm back and forth. As if we don’t have a care in the world.

  *

  The further we get from Eureka and Thornsdale, the more the fist in my stomach loosens. We do a fair amount of paranoid scanning, checking to see if any passengers are on to us. All of them are either sleeping or fiddling around on their iPads. I find myself relaxing into the seat. After such an onslaught of adrenaline, my eyes grow heavy. I rest my head against the cool window, ready to let sleep take me. But Luka gives me a gentle nudge.

  A small, white pill sits in the center of his palm.

  It looks all too familiar. “What’s that?”

  “I want you to take it.”

  I pull away from it as if it has venomous fangs. How could Luka ask this of me? How does he even have one? We flushed the entire bottle down the toilet, together, before we made our plans to break into Shady Wood. I look up into his face and notice the stress around his eyes. The deep knit of his brow.

  “Dr. Roth has a theory,” he says.

  “About the medicine?”

  “He thinks the pills mask your gifting.”

  Is this why Dr. Roth warned me against taking them back in November?

  “He thought that was why you never had any dreams when you were on them. And why those white-eyed men never bothered you.” Luka runs his hand over his short hair. “The meds close whatever window there is between the physical and the supernatural. They can’t get to you and you can’t get to them.”

  “Which is why Pete got into that car accident. It’s why we decided I can’t take them anymore.” I don’t understand. I thought we were on the same page.

  “I don’t want you to take them either. Not permanently. Not even long-term. But it’s the only way I know how to protect you.”

  “Protect me from what?” I look around. “There’s nothing here.”

  “I have this feeling I can’t shake. And tonight, when I took that nap …”

  “What?”

  He shakes his head, frustrated. Or maybe it’s not frustration—maybe it’s fear.

  It makes me afraid too. “Luka, you have to tell me what you saw.”

  “The man we fought in your brother’s hospital room is after you. He wants you locked up like your grandmother. And Tess, I don’t know how to protect you. I can’t figure out how to throw out that force field. I’ve tried and tried, but it’s not working. Dr. Roth thought the pills would work as a type of camouflage. Before we broke you out of the Edward Brooks Facility, he gave me some in case we were in a bind, or needed help.”

  I look down at the pill in his hand.

  “I think it will camouflage you. Just until we find these other people in Detroit.”

  I can’t tell if this is a good idea. I’m confused and tired. Luka has gotten us this far. Leela and I never would have pulled off the escape plan without him. He’s been the rock—strong and steady. And Dr. Roth gave Luka these pills, a man who proved to be trustworthy. That has to say something, especially since he didn’t want me to go on them to begin with. Maybe they can serve a momentary purpose.

  “I need to make sure you’re safe.” His eyes are ablaze. His voice, vehement. “Please.”

  I hesitate. With every second that ticks past, Luka looks more and more tortured. I don’t want to see him in pain, so I pick up the pill and put it on my tongue. Pushing away the memory of the saccharinely sweet woman force-feeding me pills much the same as this one, I take a long drink from Luka’s water bottle.

  He lets out a relieved breath.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who’s going to protect you?” Apparently, I’m too selfish to look out for his wellbeing. If I had a smidge of bravery, a hint of honor, I would have attempted to talk Luka out of coming with me to Detroit. Convinced him that he didn’t have to get on this bus with me. That I would be fine without him.

  “They aren’t after me like they’re af
ter you. They never have been.”

  Chapter Nine

  Dead Ends

  Luka wakes me up when we arrive in San Francisco. We need to get off and transfer buses. I slept for five hours straight with zero dreams. Unlike the peace my dreamless slumber offered before, when I was a high school student grasping for normalcy, it offers no peace now. This time, I know what is happening. The joy and relief and wonder I felt the first time around is completely absent. How can I feel any of those things when I know that somebody may have died that I could have otherwise saved, all for the sake of my safety?

  Luka grabs my backpack from the overhead compartment and discreetly scans the bus, checking to see if any of the passengers are looking at us. There are dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “Did you get any sleep?” I ask.

  “A little.” His smile is strained. “Any dreams?”

  I shake my head. Dr. Roth’s theory is proving itself true. Luka places his hand on the small of my back and walks close behind me. We file outside with the rest of the passengers, stretch our legs, and board another bus. I long for the freedom of the woods that surround my home in Thornsdale, or the crisp briny air that rolled in from the ocean whenever I sat on the back deck reading or writing in my journal. Instead, we will be on another bus for the next three days. It feels like a prison sentence.

  We ride down the coast of California, stopping for brief five-, ten-, twenty-minute stints in towns along the way. We transfer in Bakersfield and again in Las Vegas, where we ditch the thick, useless manila folder of Dr. Roth’s former patients. I take another pill and sleep through a long stretch that lands us in Denver. We buy two winter coats, some extra clothes, and a rolling suitcase, which lightens the load considerably.

  There seems to be a positive correlation between Luka’s dark circles and the protective way he acts around me. The more pronounced they become, the more protective he becomes. When we stop in Ogallala, he’s never more than two feet from my side. And yet, he no longer holds my hand. In fact, he has stopped touching me altogether. I don’t know what to make of it. I encourage him to sleep, and he does a little. But it’s fitful and sparse. Anytime I ask what’s haunting him, he doesn’t say. I can make my own educated guesses, though. I’m positive I’m dying in his dreams. And in them, Luka cannot save me. Whatever he sees when he sleeps, it has him withdrawing. Retreating into himself with haunted eyes, and I can’t save him either. I’m not even sure I can reach him.

  We have one final transfer in Chicago. By then my awe over the big cities has waned. We’ve seen at least seven or eight over the past few days and in that time, I’ve grown more accustomed to the masses of people, the cars and the horns and the smoggy air. On the final stretch to Detroit, Luka sits up straight with eyes wide open. I try giving back his mother’s hemp bracelet. I think he needs it more than me. He insists I keep it on my ankle.

  When we step off the bus for the last time, a wave of freedom sweeps through my body. No more sitting in place while snow-covered countryside scrolls past the window. We are here. We made it. I turn to smile at Luka, but his eyes are skittish. He looks back and forth, as if at any moment something might attack us. Thanks to the pills I have ingested, I cannot see or feel what he is seeing and feeling. But just because I can’t see it or feel it, doesn’t mean it isn’t real. The sheer unease in his usually calm, confident demeanor turns my bones cold.

  And places an ache in my chest. Because I know what I have to do.

  *

  It’s late. We choose the first hotel we come to, practically across the street from the Greyhound station. Inside is a pair of double beds. Luka takes the one closest to the door. I take the other. I force myself to stay awake with an increasing sense of dread. Street lights and headlights filter through the cracked blinds of our hotel room window. I wait while Luka shifts and settles in the bed beside me. I wait until his breathing turns deep and rhythmic. I wait even longer.

  I purposefully left my rolling suitcase packed and by the door with my winter coat draped over the handle. I slipped a roll of money into the front pocket as well as a note I jotted in the bathroom while brushing my teeth. All I have to do is slip out of bed, step into my shoes, and get out the door. I begin my escape with the speed of a snail. Every time the mattress springs let out a squeak, I hold my breath and stop moving.

  Luka sleeps on.

  I tiptoe across the room, my aching heart thudding heavy and thick in my throat. I place the note at the foot of the door and unclasp the hemp bracelet from my ankle. The soft latch of the door handle is barely more than a whisper. As soon as I’m out into the hallway, I hurry to the elevator and punch the button several times in a row. It doesn’t come. Too impatient to wait for it, I jab my arms into the sleeves of my winter coat and take the stairs instead, my suitcase clunk-clunk-clunking behind me. Halfway down, my quick decent turns into a sprint. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know that I need to get far away. I am a ticking bomb. It’s only a matter of time before I detonate. I can’t let Luka be with me when it happens. I can’t ruin his life, not when he still has a future ahead of him. He needs to go back to Thornsdale, where he never had dark circles beneath his eyes. He needs to get back to his family and live his life.

  Be brave, Tess. Be good. Do the right thing.

  This is my chant as I run through the hotel lobby and burst out into the biting wind. Anxiety builds inside me, so much that it turns into terror. It has nothing to do with the supernatural and everything to do with my separation from Luka. The further away I get from him, the harder it is to breathe.

  Be brave, Tess. Be good.

  I turn down a side street, my breath escaping in quick white puffs around my face. Up ahead, a garbage can clatters against the cement. A figure steps out from behind an alley dumpster. The white puffs around my face disappear. I brace myself for a white-eyed demon, or the man with the scars.

  Instead, a man with a scraggly beard and a tattered coat looks me up and down with greasy eyes. “Well, well, well, look what we have here.”

  I let go of my suitcase, fists clenching at my sides. I know how to defend myself. I’ve been trained in martial arts for years now.

  But then a second figure steps out from the dumpster. Another man, with pointed shoulders and a twisted sneer. I take a cautious step backward. I may be quick. I may have experience. But I am small and physically weak.

  The man with the sneer clucks his tongue and creeps closer. “No need to leave so fast, not when you just got here.”

  He steps toward me.

  With terror clawing up my throat, I take a few more steps back, then turn around and sprint away. My suitcase clatters behind me. My short hair whips at my cheeks. I dash away faster than I’ve ever run—quick like a rabbit. I turn the corner, onto the busy street from which I came, and as I do I slam into something hard. Something warm.

  Strong arms circle my waist. A familiar heart beats in my ear. I could stay here forever, in this spot, against this chest. But the arms let go. Luka wraps his fingers around my bicep and pulls me away from the side street. I look over my shoulder. The two men lurk in the shadow, unwilling to come out into the light. Luka drags me toward the hotel I attempted to escape. He doesn’t let go until we stand beneath the awning.

  Heat emanates from his body—wave after wave of white hot anger. The wind molds his undershirt to his chest, which heaves as though he just finished sprinting the four hundred. The light from the street casts gorgeously frightening shadows along his face. He holds up the letter I left him. “What is this?”

  “A note.”

  He uncrumples it and begins to read. “Dear Luka, please go back to Thornsdale before it’s too late. I will be okay. I can find the others. You can still have a normal life. Don’t waste it on me. Tess.” When he finishes, his green eyes smolder. “Do you really think my life will be normal if I go back to California?”

  “It will be more normal than this.”

  He grits his teeth.

&
nbsp; “You’re not sleeping. You’re barely eating. Your dreams are getting worse. Something’s torturing you here. Something was torturing you on the bus.”

  “You’re right. The dreams are getting worse. But if you think going back to Thornsdale without you will make them better, then you don’t know anything.” He removes the hemp bracelet from his back pocket and wraps it around my wrist. “I’m not going back. I want to find these others as much as you. So please, do us both a favor and stop trying to save me.”

  *

  The next morning, Luka’s dark circles are worse. I want to help carry whatever burden he is carrying, but how can I when he insists I continue with the medicine? I suggest that I stop, but his no is so firm and unyielding, I put the pill in my mouth and swallow.

  We take our continental breakfast back to our room and decide to look for Dr. Roth’s three clients first. If those result in dead ends, then we will try finding Dr. Carlyle. No reason to drag him into it if the connection is a coincidence.

  “Who do you want to start with?” I ask.

  The three files sit in front of us on the bed. I expect Luka to pick up the one he’s been poring over the most—a thirty-four-year-old male named Gabriel. Recurring dreams of a girl he’d never met, but whose safety meant everything. The symptoms are eerily similar to Luka’s, only instead of the girl being me, this woman has light brown skin and dark brown eyes. At the time the records were taken, Gabriel lived in south Detroit.

  Luka, however, doesn’t pick up Gabriel’s file. He picks up Josiah’s—a man whose symptoms are much more similar to mine. At the time the records were taken, his wife, Dot, insisted that Josiah see a Dr. William Carlyle, who then referred him to Dr. Charles Roth. He would be sixty-seven now and lives, or lived, on the west side of Detroit.