Then she talks, speaking of old ballets, of rural agrarian life during the Industrial Revolution, of epidemics. I shiver. Maybe she's just a history freak with an active imagination and a personality disorder. But it's so real to her, it frightens me, hearing her weariness, her aimlessness. Her fixation on something that's plainly more solid to her than any perspective I can offer her.
Her voice breaks frequently; she seems to be warning herself away from reacting to me too much. Even my hand on her soft hair can't quell her shakes.
Boy do I know how to pick 'em.
She talks until the sky begins to lighten, segueing back into Italian frequently. I stop calling her attention to it, encouraging her to speak in English. I can barely keep my eyes open; I have no idea why I'm this tired, but it's all I can do to not fall asleep next to her.
I know it's rude, but I honestly can't will myself to care. If she thinks it's rude, walks away, I will have done what I could for her.
Finally, she looks me in the eye, her gaze clear, and asks me, “Will you stay with me? When I stop running?”
Any answer stalls out between my brain and my mouth. She can't be serious. This is some bizarre ruse. Maybe she's trying to get me off my guard so she can rob me. Or something. There has to be something else at play here than an irrational woman talking about nightmares.
Aletta's voice is full of fear, and it takes me long enough to comprehend her that she asks the question again. “Will you stay with me? When I sleep, and stop running?”
It's the weirdest invitation to shack up with someone I've ever heard, but once again, I don't have it in me to turn her down. I can't think straight. So long as she lets me sleep, I don't fucking care.
No, that's not true. I want to be callous about this, but with her lips quivering as she tries to hide her vulnerability, I don't have it in me. If sleeping next to me will make her feel calmer, that's fine. I have no clue where the exhaustion came from; it feels like I haven't slept in a week. I'd commit to anything to be able to shut my eyes and just be.
“Sure. My place or yours?”
“Yours.”
I help her to her feet, help her stumble back toward my car. Her movements are shaky, uncoordinated, and if I hadn't seen how suddenly the change happened, with her being in my sight both before and after, I might assume she was drunk or high.
It unnerves me, but at the same time, also rubs my nose in something I don't really want to admit. Maybe I'm not that good of a man after all. I want to be open to love, open to something serious, fears aside. I resent those of my exes who weren't open to that. But maybe I can't handle it.
And another thought occurs to me; if this is her, if I put her aside because I don't want to deal with her baggage, I'm part of the problem. Hallucinations, past life delusional bullshit or whatever, I still like her. And I don't want myself to be the kind of person to abandon a friend.
She doesn't say a word on the drive. It makes me second guess myself, wonder what the hell happened to our night. Finally, two words leave her mouth, so quietly that I almost miss them. “Thank you.”
Chapter Five: Dreamer
Aletta:
I know what Lorelei would say. Without explicitly saying that I fucked up earlier, she would suggest that this is the opportunity to get it on track. Vulnerable, in his bed...it's not exactly quantum physics.
But I know I won't.
I am a bad succubus.
He fetches me a shirt and a pair of sweatpants, and leaves me in his bathroom to get changed. When I come out, he's in his own pair of sweatpants, and turning down the covers. “Just for tonight, okay? I'll wake you up when I have to go to work.” His eyes are wary, and leave a well of guilt in me.
I nod, and lay down.
He settles next to me and pulls the covers over us. I listen to his breath as he falls asleep almost instantly. Lorelei said that sustaining a succubus's manifestation required a lot of energy, but I didn't expect it to tire him out like this. No wonder so many of us do as much of their work digitally, or through erotica and dreams, as they can. And work fast if they have to form fully in the waking world.
I let go of my form, pass into his dream. But instead of staying with him, I walk away. The scenery changes, the city streets falling away into classic architecture. I wish he could walk with me, but I don't know if that would help or not. Something behind me gurgles, and I remind myself not to lose courage.
I walk into the old concert hall, feeling its plush rugs under my toes, changing to cold tile as I approach the main hall. I sit on the edge of the stage, feeling the rumbles getting closer. But they stop outside the hall, and it occurs to me that they don't want me to leave.
The wood under my rear feels softer than it should. I examine it closely, and see the molecules coming apart. The dreamscape changing, once again without my intent or permission. I look around, and realize the entire hall is disintegrating slowly. I try to put it back together, but fail.
So I try to change the colors of the seat cushions, and fail. I try to pull a person in here to keep me company, but fail again.
I stroke the trim lining the stage and lean backward, rolling myself away from the edge, and to my feet. I look for any little tiny metaphysical fractures I can use to reach through to somewhere else connected to here, any flaws in this facade. Maybe this is another dream exerting pull over this one through a hastily closed portal some enterprising incubus left behind.
I have no idea why this dream is so resistant. There's no fractures, no reason it should be. I stroke every inch of wood, every hand-carved trim. And finally, I make my way to the orchestra pit, push among chairs that seem too modern for the rest of the setup here.
A smear of ash lingers next to the edge where it meets the stage, and to my eyes, that ash has a life of its own, shifting in little eddies, curling around my toes. I kneel, and look closer. It sticks to my fingers as though magnetized, and as I attempt to blow it off, it slides along my skin to get away. A speck of it gets in my eye, stinging me, and I swear. More drifts into my throat, and I cough until my eyes water and my breath steals from my lungs.
When I open my eyes, the hall's dissolution is accelerating, years of mold and rot spreading in the space of seconds. The stage is burned out and obviously disused, the walls reeking of mildew and rust. The fine paintings have flaked to dust, only broken tints remaining. And there's the sound of broken breathing at my ankles. I glance down, startled.
A scream tears through my throat as I take in Iniga's mutilated body, neck askew, bones cracked, but inexplicably alive. She blinks at me, tears pouring down her cheeks, and without thinking further, I wipe them away.
Her skin is cold to my touch, despite her gasping breaths and flushed cheeks. I can almost taste the smell of singed flesh still marred with smoking burns. Not a hint of decay, only charred flesh.
I can't find words, can't formulate the questions in my head.
“Oh thank god, Aletta. I've been alone for so long.” Her lips crack as she moves, blackened flesh falling off in flakes.
The most frivolous question possible pops out of my mouth. “Does it hurt?”
“Kind of, sometimes. Well, a lot. But really...my nose itches.”
I chuckle wetly and scratch both sides of it, since I don't know where the itch is.
She sighs, and her eyes flutter shut in relief.
“Please don't leave me, Letty.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I have no idea how you're here.” I lay down next to her, unsure whether to prop her up and risk it hurting her more, or whether to just be near her.
“I wish I knew. It tears me apart, erodes me, bit by bit. Sometimes I get these, these visions. Some of them of you. Well, most of them.”
I stroke her hair and cry. She feels more real, broken and dead though she should be, than the last hundred years of my life. I think of all of my nightmares, and it seems clear. Somehow she's still here. She was always here.
“I don't know how I can stay with you, but
believe me, I will find a way back to you. I'll find a way to put you right.”
Her eyelids flutter shut, then open, and something black and oily flashes in their depths, the same thing that greets me in every reflection. Her fingers twitch, and I know she'd be fluttering them if she could raise her arm. I put my arm over her and hold her hand, weeping for her, and for myself.
Chapter Six: Recovery
Han:
Aletta's eyes are wet with tears as she sits up. There's a pot of coffee on the stove, but I woke up too late to make her eggs or anything. It makes me feel like a shitty host, especially since she looks like she hasn't slept a wink. Still, the guilt doesn't stretch far. I didn't drink anything last night, but I feel like I'm getting off a three-day bender. There's only so much I can be expected to play nurturing host, under the circumstances.
“You okay?”
Her gaze fixes on me, and she throws herself into my arms. I hold her, pat her back, with bemusement. “That good, huh?”
“I'm not insane. I'm not broken. It worked.”
“You gonna spell it out for me?” I wonder if I can find out what this is about without making myself late for work. Maybe I should text my assistant, let him know I'll be coming in a few hours late.
“The visions, the dreams—it was a spirit. A dead girl, wanting someone to know where she was.”
I can't restrain a wry laugh. Aletta's face falls.
“I know it sounds crazy. But I know where she is. I can get her out of my head.”
Finally, I manage to stop the chuckles.
“Oh, yeah? Good luck with that.”
Her lips tremble. “I have to get to Florence.”
The laughter comes back, until I remember her slipping into Italian. Let it never be said that delusion is illogical. I pass her a cup of coffee and try to placate her. “At least you'll have a lovely trip. Heard Florence is beautiful.”
The tremble eases, replaced with a small smile. “It is. I grew up outside there.” The tension returns, and she whispers, “I can't go alone.”
“Sure you can. You're fearless. And trusting.” I can't bear to see the hopelessness spreading across her face. How can someone live with those abrupt mood swings?
“No, I literally can't.”
I snort. “You do know that even if some dictionaries recognize that usage, it's still fundamentally wrong for the word, right? You can't literally be unable to go somewhere.”
She shakes her head, opens her mouth, but swallows what she was about to say. “Please? I'll pay your ticket.”
I roll my eyes. “I could afford a vacation if I wanted one.”
“Then take your vacation with me? Come to Florence?”
I shake my head. “I have work, and a million other places I'd rather see before Florence.”
“Please? Think it over?”
I wait a moment too long before answering, and she flees, storming though the door. By the time I look out into the hall, she's gone.
Aletta:
I want to cry from the impotence of it. I'm so close, but without Han, I have no way of getting to Italy. I can't just go there; I need a connection there. No one will give me a connection for something like that intentionally, and only the strongest of us can create their own without being given the seed of it. And even then, when they're sniffed out, they're severely punished for abandoning their people. Somehow, I have to find a way to persuade Han. Finally, I stumble onto a plan.
Every time he dreams for the next several weeks, he dreams of Florence. I feed him every memory I have of it, the tang in the air, the herbs, all of the little details that defined my early life, only minus me, and people who might mention me. The rolling fields and woods, the crowded markets, cobblestones under bare feet. Packed dirt and hay, and the smell of a new wool coat.
It's the closest I've come to telling him the truth about myself, and in reliving them, I am again filled with rage at the unfairness of my rebirth. And at the pain of Iniga's hell.
I avoid Lorelei; she'll view this whole endeavor as some kind of distraction. Or worse, a dismissal of whatever flaws I actually have as a succubus. But she wasn't there. She didn't hold Iniga's hand.
Finally, when Han's anger and resistance to the dreams has broken down, I manifest near him in the coffee shop. I get another chai and fight to keep my face smooth, unaware of his presence.
He takes the bait and puts his cup down next to mine. I look up, raise my eyebrows. And when I see it's him, I let hurt and irritation creep through, honestly enough. He smiles, a tight little smirk of acknowledgment, and sits near me. “I'm surprised to see you again, Aletta.”
I shrug. “I come here a lot.”
“I didn't say I was unhappy to see you again.”
I take a sip to hide my feelings in the rim of the cup. If he wants to talk, he can talk. Otherwise, I'll let him stew. He needs to know how important this is.
“I know how this is going to sound, but it's grown on me. I felt awful for chasing you away. You trusted me with something, and I laughed at you.”
I sigh, short and huffy. “You did.”
“But will you forgive me if I go with you?”
I give him a distrustful look. “Just like that?”
He nods. “Just like that.”
Han:
I can't even explain it. It's not even just the dreams. Something about Florence has caught my imagination, especially with her ideas about new beginnings. I've been in my own rut for a while now, and I want to try for my own new beginning.
I visited my grandfather last week. He's suffering from severe dementia, on top of being wheelchair-bound. And all my life, he's been a little...off...anyways. It's harder and harder to spend time around him, watch him deteriorate. But more than that, it reminded me of her. His incoherence was only marginally less delusional than hers.
It made me torture myself, spending hours wondering if everyone in her life treats her the way I did. Suddenly, her frustration and perceived helplessness made sense. And I felt like a huge ass. International travel with a near total stranger is crazy, spontaneous, and all of that. But I should have at least had the discussion. Built her up to take that step on her own, not thrusting it upon her as an inevitability.
It's not even about her, at this point. It's about the kind of person I want to be.
I've been trying to explain it to myself for days, since I made that promise in the coffee shop, and held her hand while I called work, asked them to put off my appointments for a week. It'll mess with a few of my deadlines, but if I can handle even a few calls during the trip, it's nothing insurmountable.
I still don't know if I can handle Aletta's baggage, but I'd at least like to be her friend. She skips like a kid as we leave the airport, until the city draws her up short. Apparently, for all of her obsession with the place, she hasn't seen a picture newer than the last hundred years—she must not have grown up in the city itself, or been through the airport.
It makes me smile at how innocent she seems, stumbling through every bit of the process of getting through security and retrieving our bags. Well, my bags. I didn't actually see her load hers. I don't think she brought any, though logically, I know she must have.
I don't trust myself to drive here; I'm not used to international travel, and as stressed as I've been, it seems like an awful risk. But that turns out to be for the better, as Aletta's idea largely seems to be to walk around until she finds the place she's looking for. She thinks she'll be looking for somewhere on the north side of the city, so that's where our hotel is.
As time goes on, we realize that's a fallacy; the city she knows so much about was much smaller, and her 'north side' is likely much closer to the center of town. At least, the buildings that she spends the most time staring at are toward the center of town.
I resign myself to worrying about her while she looks for it. She's obsessed, barely willing to eat or sleep. I make her eat when I do, and sleep next to me. She rolls her eyes at me, but lets me boss
her into it, even though her stuff's in her own room.
I still have no clue why she wanted me here. But her steps, just a little ahead of me, eyes to the ground, are reassuring. And I've always enjoyed walking. I still don't feel I have any clue what she's fighting, or why, but I feel privileged to see this side of her strength. With a better task, she would be a force of nature. Obsession isn't always unhealthy.
“Are you sure I can't help you research what you're looking for?”
She pauses, a bite halfway to her mouth. Then, she resumes eating. I ask the question again.
“Yes, I'm sure.” She sends me a look halfway to a glare, but then gentles it. “Yes, I'm sure.”
I squeeze her hand, and lead her out for another day on the streets.
Aletta:
“The buildings...are so new.” This is the tenth time I've said that, but I still can't keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Well, yeah. WWII air raids.”
I sit on a park bench and look at Han to see if there's any crankiness in him. He's been so hot and cold this entire trip. Admittedly, I'm not much better. Every night, I've let the dream chase me to the stage, looked for Iniga's trail, and I've failed to find it. I've woken up wrapped in his arms, reminded that I'm not supposed to have any of this.
He settles next to me, and I curl into him. This kind of physical intimacy wasn't common in my day, at least not in public, but I welcome the world loosening its restraints, letting us seek comfort where and how we can. My eyes drift shut, and I can tell he's wondering whether to pick me up, carry me back to the hotel. But he doesn't. He likes the way I look, sleeping.
The thought brings a smile to me, even as a speck of dust crawling up the bench demands my attention. There's something familiar to it. I sit up, fix my eyes on it.
He leans around me to see what I'm staring it, and shrugs. Nothing to see, to his eyes. But I follow it, only barely keeping my eyes on the road in front of me, so I won't get hit by a car. Finally, in the grass alongside a modern cement building, there's the little puddle of substance curled in the plants' roots. If I had energy to, I would cry. I have nothing to put it in except for my newest coffee cup.
Beyond The Veil: A Paranormal & Magical Romance Boxed Set Page 57
