Perilous: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 7)

by Cidney Swanson

  Sam felt tears burning behind her eyes and blinked them back. Things hadn’t felt simple with Will for a long time.

  “I don’t want to hold you back,” she said quietly. They had made it all the way back to the school. The track, where they did cool down laps, loomed just ahead.

  Will sighed heavily. “I know you don’t want to,” he said. “But the truth is, if I go, you’ll worry.”

  Sam didn’t respond. If Will left—if he left now of all months—she wasn’t sure she could keep it together. She was barely keeping it together as it was, with him safe in Las Abs. Why couldn’t she move past this … this fear? What was there to be afraid of? Hans and Helmann and the rest of them were dead. So why were her fears still so alive?

  “I know you’d worry,” said Will, breaking the silence between them. “And I don’t want to make things worse for you than they already are.”

  She heard the words, but she also heard the regret behind them.

  Will continued. “I’m just being selfish. But we’re a team, Sam. It’s like what Coach is always saying, about all of us being in this together. You and me: we’re in it together. If you want me to stay behind, then … then that’s what I want, too.”

  Sam reached out to squeeze his hand tightly.

  “Hey, Sam? Is this about … something else?” asked Will. “Something besides … the past?”

  Something besides the past? What else was there? The future? Sam felt a roiling surge of terror—it ripped through her, but just as swiftly, it passed and was gone. She hadn’t felt anything like that since … since she was eight. The same age she’d figured out that running helped dissipate those kinds of feelings. Thank goodness.

  “Sam?”

  Will was waiting for her answer.

  “I don’t know,” said Sam, shaking her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me right now.”

  Will smiled at her, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “No one says you have to.”

  Sam knew she should smile back, or agree, or say something, but she just kept running, like her life was a puzzle she could solve by logging enough miles underfoot.

  11

  PANIC

  Sam slid into her favorite booth in the very back of the Las Abuelitas Bakery Café. In addition to being the café’s most private location, the booth also shared a wall with the bakery in back, making it the best place to catch the scent of whatever might be baking.

  But even the whiff of Bridget Li’s fresh chocolate chip cookies couldn’t take away the nervous feeling in Sam’s belly. She and Gwyn hadn’t had a real conversation since that phone call in the middle of the night. And now Gwyn had insisted the two sit down and have a proper tête-à-tête. Sam only hoped she wouldn’t say anything to make the relationship more uncomfortable. She’d found it nearly impossible to concentrate in French and Physics, knowing the end of the school day would bring her face to face with Gwyn and all of Gwyn’s … plans.

  “Sorry for the delay,” said Gwyn, sliding into the booth across from Sam with a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. “I had to show Hanna how to get the register drawer un-jammed. Ma really needs to replace that old thing. She sent to Fresno for a new set of stainless mixing bowls, which apparently we need more than a new cash register.”

  Rolling her eyes, Gwyn grabbed a napkin from the dispenser, put one cookie on it, and passed the remaining four cookies to Sam.

  “Um, thanks?” said Sam. “Is it … gluttonous to eat more than one cookie?” She regretted the words immediately. Would Gwyn be offended?

  Gwyn laughed. “No,” she replied. “But I want to fit in my wedding dress.”

  As Sam pictured Gwyn running through a meadow in some frothy, white confection, she felt her stomach tighten. Relax, she told herself.

  Gwyn reached across the table, placing her hand gently on one of Sam’s.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Sam felt her throat tightening. Everything. Everything was wrong.

  Gwyn gave Sam’s hand a squeeze and scooted the plate more insistently toward her.

  “Chocolate,” said Gwyn. “You know that’s what Sylvia would recommend.”

  Dutifully, Sam picked up a cookie and took a bite. It was still warm and the chocolate chips were in that perfect melt-y state where they were no longer hot enough to burn her mouth.

  “Is it you and Will?” asked Gwyn. “And don’t tell me things are fine, because my Queen of Relationships radar is picking up a major disturbance in the Force.”

  Sam’s mouth tugged up on one side and she took another bite of her cookie.

  “So?” asked Gwyn.

  When Sam tried to come up with something to say in response, it felt as if she was reaching into the funnel of a tornado, trying to grab at a confusion of things whirling in and out of sight. But there was one thing….

  “Will and I, when we kiss … I don’t …” Sam leaned forward. “I don’t ripple anymore.”

  Gwyn’s face lit up like her mom’s bakery display case. “That’s wonderful!”

  Sam’s forehead wrinkled. “Wonderful? Really?”

  “Um, let me think about that. My best friend can now kiss her boyfriend all she wants without missing out on the part where they, you know, kiss. Yes, Sam. I would say this is a good thing.”

  “But think about the implications,” said Sam. “Why did I ripple in the first place when we kissed?”

  Gwyn’s brows drew together. “I thought you said it was because you blissed out or something, right?”

  “Exactly,” said Sam.

  “Are you telling me you don’t like kissing Will anymore?”

  Sam swiped at a bit of melted chocolate chip. She considered licking her finger but her appetite had fled. Did she still like kissing Will? A frisson ran along her spine as she thought of kissing him. “I still like kissing him. I mean, I think I do.”

  Gwyn snorted in laughter. “It’s not a trick question. Either you do or you don’t.”

  “Then I do. But isn’t it significant that I don’t … bliss out anymore?”

  “I see what you mean.” Gwyn reached over to Sam’s plate and took a cookie, then realized what she was doing and replaced it. “Tell me this: are there other things that used to make you ripple that don’t make you ripple now?”

  Sam thought for a moment. She hadn’t disappeared last week when she’d been looking at the mist rising off her pool. That was the sort of beauty which would have made her vanish in the past. Now that she thought of it, when was the last time she’d rippled without meaning to?

  “Huh,” murmured Sam. “The last time I remember accidentally vanishing was in front of Dad and Syl the Christmas before last when we had that fire in the new fire pit.”

  “So that tells you….” Gwyn dragged the word out, inviting Sam to finish the sentence.

  “Maybe … I’m just better at staying solid now?”

  Gwyn nodded. “Yes. What’s significant is that it’s taken longer for you to be able to kiss and not ripple than it took for you to get over your thing with beauty and rippling.”

  “Significant?”

  “I’m no expert—well, other than being Queen of Relationships—but I’d say it means that kissing Will is more blissful than, say, watching a gorgeous sunset or whatever. So that’s a good sign.”

  Sam’s brows pulled together.

  “So, problem solved?” asked Gwyn, eyeing the plate of cookies.

  Sam wasn’t sure the problem was … solved, exactly. But Gwyn’s reasoning was sound. Even Sir Walter had hinted that time would resolve the issue of kissing and vanishing. Maybe it was a sign their relationship was … better. Although that didn’t feel right, either. It was more like, whatever was wrong between them, kissing wasn’t it.

  Gwyn tapped the plate. “’Cause I’m thinking if your problem is solved, you could maybe share just one more cookie.”

  Sam made an effort to smile and passed the plate back across the table.

  Gwyn took a bite of a cook
ie and sighed.

  “Ma may not know how to let her daughter grow up and be her own person, but darn, does she know how to bake.”

  Sam emitted a single soft laugh.

  “What?” demanded Gwyn.

  “Did you just use ‘darn’ as an expletive?”

  “‘Darn’ is a perfectly good word for conveying emphasis,” said Gwyn, her brows raised in a superior sort of way.

  “I was just kidding,” said Sam, feeling tension creeping back into the conversation.

  “I know. Me, too.” Gwyn shrugged. “But if it makes Chrétien, Father Thomas, and God happy, then why not make a few changes in my vocabulary?”

  Something tugged in Sam’s belly. “What about making Gwyn happy?” she asked softly.

  “Why thank you for that excellent display of BFF concern. But here’s the thing: making Chrétien happy does make Gwyn happy. It’s pretty simple, really.” Gwyn ate the second half of her cookie. “Besides, I need to get on the Lord’s good side with Chrétien preparing to storm Georg’s fortress or whatever.”

  Sam felt her pulse quicken. “Has Sir Walter figured out where Georg is?”

  “Chrétien said Will pointed out that the forest in the video was a lauri-something forest. I forget the exact name, but apparently there aren’t very many of these forests in the world, so they have a short-list of possible locations that they’re whittling away at.”

  “How can you be telling me this so calmly?” asked Sam. “Aren’t you scared? What if Chrétien gets hurt? Or … worse?”

  Gwyn folded her hands together on the table. “It’s not that I don’t worry. I do. But I can’t prevent him from being who he is and doing what he feels is necessary. And I wouldn’t want to, even if I could. His whole save-the-world complex is part of what I love about him, you know?”

  Sam felt her chest constricting. She wanted to keep Will from going after Georg. Anything that would take away the nightmares ending with Will lying dead in a pool of his own blood. She closed her eyes and took a slow breath. You’re safe. Will is safe. You’re afraid, but there is nothing dangerous happening to you or to Will.

  “Father Thomas says staying married is all about the fine art of compromise,” Gwyn said quietly.

  Sam looked up, her interest in the conversation re-engaged by Gwyn’s troubling use of the word “compromise.”

  “Gwyn, has it occurred to you that the only one compromising here is you? You’ve given up colorful language and you’re letting Chrétien run off to face danger and that’s just the things you’ve told me about—”

  Gwyn held up her hand. “Let me stop you right there. I want to be clear on one thing. I am not the only one giving up things I want. Do you know what Chrétien’s biggest dream was, before we got together?”

  Sam shook her head.

  “Jets. He wanted to fly jet airplanes. In the military. I told him that was a deal breaker. I was not planning to putz around the house alone while he was having fun being deployed God knows where—oops—no one knows where for months and months on end.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He was pretty unhappy for about twenty-four hours. And then I suggested that as a compromise, Chrétien could learn to fly as a civilian, and take on the occasional assignment from Sir Walter fighting bad guys, of course. As long as he’s home for lights out.”

  Sam looked up at Gwyn and murmured, “I’m sorry for what I said about Chrétien.”

  “Apology accepted,” said Gwyn. “I need you on my side, Sam.”

  “I’m on your side.”

  “Well, hopefully you won’t change your mind when I tell you the reason for our little tête-à-tête.”

  Sam’s brows pulled together. “What’s wrong?”

  Gwyn leaned in. “Here’s the thing. With Chrétien getting ready to go off and spy on Georg, we thought we’d move the wedding up.”

  Sam raised one eyebrow. “How much ‘up’?”

  “This Sunday.” Gwyn leaned forward, grinning, and whispered, “I’m getting married this Sunday!”

  No sooner had Gwyn said the words, Bridget Li—all smiles—ran past them and into the bakery.

  This Sunday. This Sunday.

  The vision of Gwyn in a flowing gown returned, and Sam saw her best friend throwing her head back and twirling in happy abandon. Then, in rapid succession, Sam saw two more images: Will dressed in a tux, his hand extended, followed by the image of him being struck down by Hans’s car.

  Sam blinked and force herself to look at the table, to remember where she was, but the vision haunted her, terrified her—a nightmare that could attack by day as well as by night.

  “Sam,” said Gwyn. “Sam! You’re white as a ghost.”

  Sam looked up at the face of her best friend. “I can’t breathe, Gwynnie. I think I’m … I feel like … I think I might be suffocating.”

  Gwyn stood and crossed to Sam’s side of the booth.

  “Sam? Should I call 9-1-1?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t … I can’t breathe!” Sam clawed at her chest. Her hands felt strange, like they were losing sensation. Her heart was pounding harder than when she raced up the hill on the 7K run.

  At that moment Bridget Li pushed through the bakery door and back into the café, holding a platter of snickerdoodles.

  “Ma!” cried Gwyn, pointing at Sam.

  “Oh my gracious,” said Bridget Li. She set the platter down and took Sam’s hands in hers, rubbing them together vigorously. Bridget turned to Gwyn. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. She says she can’t breathe.”

  Sam felt dizzy. She was going to pass out. Bridget had her finger on Sam’s wrist, taking her pulse.

  “Help me,” Bridget said to Gwyn. “Let’s get her into the bakery.”

  Sam rose, but her legs felt like jelly. She wanted to say she didn’t think she could walk, but when she tried to take a step, she found she could. Bridget and Gwyn guided her into the bakery.

  Sam had a flashback to the time Hansel and Georg had been in the bakery, threatening and angry.

  “I can’t … breathe,” she said again, her heart pounding furiously. “Something terrible is going to happen….”

  “Sam,” said Bridget. “Sam, look at me. You’re having a panic attack. You’re going to be okay.”

  “I’m going to suffo—” she broke off, taking a deep gasping breath.

  “You’re not going to suffocate,” said Bridget. “I know it feels bad, but your brain won’t let you stop breathing.”

  “What if I pass out?” asked Sam, panic rising in her throat.

  “Then you pass out,” Bridget said calmly. “And your brain will instruct your lungs to keep on working anyway. But according to every article I’ve read on the subject, you can’t faint from a panic attack. Fainting happens from lowered blood pressure, and your blood pressure is not low at the moment. It will pass, Sammy, I promise. There’s an upper limit to how long your body can do this.”

  “We’re not talking days, are we?” asked Gwyn.

  “Oh, goodness, no,” replied Bridget. “Sammy, this will last no longer than another five or at most ten minutes. And we’re staying right here with you.” She turned to Gwyn. “Call Sylvia and tell her to come down here.”

  Gwyn nodded and made the call.

  “I’m not going to die?” asked Sam, her voice coming out thin and reedy.

  “No, sweetheart,” said Bridget. “You’re going to be fine. You’ve got a lot of adrenaline running around inside you right now, but it’s going to dissipate real soon and you’ll start feeling better.”

  “I can’t feel my feet or my hands,” said Sam.

  “That’s normal,” said Bridget.

  Gwyn, who had been scrolling on her phone, spoke. “According to this website, your body is having a fight or flight moment and you should be experiencing an increased heart rate, an increase in respiratory rate, tensing of muscles, constricting of arteries—”

  “Thank you, Gwyneth,�
�� said Bridget, glaring at her daughter. “I think that will be enough.”

  Sam felt a sort of fluttering at the sides of her mouth, like her body was trying to smile but couldn’t quite remember how.

  “Try to slow down your breathing, Sammy honey,” said Bridget, her hands firmly on Sam’s shoulders, her eyes locked on Sam’s.

  Sam stretched her next exhale as long as she could.

  “That’s good, honey,” said Bridget. “Just breathe. Just breathe.”

  It took Sam another couple of minutes before the feeling began to return to her feet and hands, before her heart rate dropped back to a less frantic pace. By the time Sylvia raced in through the back door, Sam was feeling much better.

  “Sweetheart,” said Sylvia, rushing to Sam’s side. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”

  Sam nodded. “I’m feeling a little better. I’m not dizzy at all anymore. Just … tired.”

  “Your body was working pretty hard,” said Bridget. “I’ll send you some information that might help head off a severe attack if you start feeling this way again.”

  “Any idea what might have been troubling you, sweetie?” asked Sylvia.

  Sam shook her head. “I was just talking with Gwyn….” She stopped herself, realizing she couldn’t disclose the nature of the conversation. “I’m sure it won’t happen again,” she said. Then, to reassure the three anxious looking women surrounding her, she added, “I had two panic attacks right after Mom died. But they never came back. I’m sure this is just … it’s February … and, you know….”

  “Oh, of course, sweetie,” said Sylvia. “Of course. Anniversaries are the hardest.” Sylvia wrapped both arms around Sam, holding her tenderly. “The hardest,” she whispered, smoothing Sam’s hair back off her face.

  “I think I’d like to go home,” said Sam.

  Gwyn leaned over and gave her a quick hug. “Of course. I’ll see you Sunday, then?”

  Sam nodded. “Sunday. See you then.”

  12

  UNEASY LIES THE HEAD THAT WEARS A CROWN

  Georg was growing more and more displeased with Raoul. Raoul complained about the food. He complained about the tediousness of the work. He complained that Georg spent less time working in the lab than did the rest of them. At times, Georg feared Raoul’s presence was like arsenic, slowly poisoning the well. This was meant to be a peaceful revolution, and shouldn’t peace begin at home?