by Emily Reed
He didn’t touch me, just stood over me, his hand out… offering to help. "I don't feel right.”
"You can stay in my room," Emmanuel offered. "You can lock yourself in, Okay?" I didn't answer him. "I won't touch you," he promised.
But that’s not what I wanted at all.
I woke up with a start, the room at once familiar and foreign. Despite the high ceilings and half-shrouded factory windows, there was something about Emmanuel’s space that felt right, almost like a sanctuary. It even smelled like incense.
Votive candles lined the windowsill, their unlit wicks standing out as black silhouettes against the light coming through the white sheets covering the window. Pushing the comforter away, I slipped out of the big bed.
I wore a T-shirt that smelled like Emmanuel. The hem brushed my thighs, closer to my knees than hips. My ankle-length white socks quieted my footsteps as I crossed to the windows.
Wax covered the sill and dripped onto the rough wooden floor below. The fresh candles' bases had melted directly into the old ones. Black, blue, purple, and red twisted around each other like streams of water running down the side of a mountain.
I traced my finger over the smooth surface and felt an energy lingering there. The spark of life. That was the first thing the woman I'd seen in the cemetery said to me. What did she mean?
A car drove by, making the shadows from the draped sheets race across the ceiling. Cool air caressed my skin, and I sensed the lingering movement in the solidified wax, could almost taste the fumes from the passing vehicle. Someone must have put something in my beer.
But that didn't explain the strange woman in the cemetery. Maybe she was real. She said Megan was dead but not gone—and that rang true to me. I'd never felt that she was dead. Something tickled at the back of my mind. But as I tried to grasp onto it, the thought dissipated, like smoke, drifting away into the ether.
Was she a ghost? Was it some kind of witchcraft? You couldn't live in Crescent City without hearing stories about spirits and other unknown dark things that go bump in the night. Maybe it wasn't a hallucination. Maybe none of it was.
When Megan and I first came to Crescent City, we lived in a warehouse squat. It wasn't safe or clean, but it was dry and free. And everyone agreed it was haunted. Winds rustled threateningly, ashtrays shot across rooms, matches lit themselves. But compared to the other humans, all that seemed tame.
It was as if we'd escaped one hell to enter another. We'd run from my foster father, to fall into the hands of younger and stronger men. But we were different.
Megan used her knife like a sushi chef. Never a stab, always a slice. Blood arched across the wall. Megan stood over me, as a man ran out the door. She'd shake afterwards. And we'd hold each other tight, our faces close, sharing each other's breath.
I turned away from Emmanuel's candles. I took in a fortifying breathe before sliding the deadbolt back and leaving the room. Ambient light from the street lamps spilled into the kitchen. I padded forward, past the white cabinets flecked with grease near the stove, the full sink of dishes, and the counters littered with debris.
Emmanuel slept on the couch, his forearm across his eyes, blocking the light that came through the windows. I crouched down next to him, suddenly fascinated by the pulse I could see in his neck, just under the surface of his skin. I wanted to touch him, to lay my fingers there and feel his life pumping through him.
He woke with a start, and I fell back onto my butt. "Darling?" he said, his eyes shadowed in the dark room. I scrambled back to my feet. "What is it?" he asked.
I didn't answer for a moment, feeling like he'd caught me watching him…which he had. But I'd come out for a reason. "Did you—?" The sentence fell short, sounding too ridiculous.
"What?" He sat up, the blanket falling away from his bare chest. I turned away, unable to look at him. The brief glimpse of his sculpted body had sent electric currents of hunger through my gut and up my throat. "What’s going on?” he asked. I glanced back at him furtively. He was rubbing at his head, mashing the curls around.
"That woman in the cemetery?"
"Darling, what are you talking about?" I couldn't read his expression in the darkness. "Here." He pulled his feet up, making room for me on the couch. "Sit." I stared at the space he'd made for me—so close to him. I sat down gingerly, keeping my feet on the floor, ready to run, not sure why I'd need to but ready none the less. "What happened in the cemetery?" he asked.
"You took me there." I stole a glance at him—the blanket pooled on his crossed leg, his sculpted shoulders hunched forward, his long-fingered hands resting in his lap.
"It's not an unusual place to go when you're looking for help. As shown by the number of question marks on that mausoleum."
"So…you don't know anything about her?"
He leaned back and pushed his hair behind his ears—trying to control the curls. "I thought she might come to you."
Hope bloomed in my chest. "Who?" it came out a whisper.
"Suki."
"So you've seen her?" I asked. He nodded. "What is she?" If she wasn't a hallucination, then maybe I could find Megan. If he'd seen her, too, then I wasn't crazy. My heartbeat quickened at the thought.
He shrugged. "Suki is powerful and old."
"A witch?" He nodded with a shrug. “She told me Megan was dead but not gone," I said.
Emmanuel's body tensed. "She did?"
"What does that mean?"
"I'm not sure." He bit his lip in thought, and it did something to me. Something that hurt and felt good.
"Are you lying to me?"
"Never." He met my gaze, his eyes shining in the half light. I resisted the urge to climb on top of him. I swallowed; it sounded loud in the quiet room.
"I better get back to bed." I stood up, fear and desire swirling in my stomach.
"See you in the morning," he said.
I returned to his room, closing the door behind me, hearing the latch catch with a click. I pushed the deadbolt into place and rested my forehead against the door. Emmanuel had seen the woman in the cemetery too. She wasn't a hallucination. Relief coursed through me even as hunger beat at my chest.
Climbing back into the big bed, I rubbed my face against Emmanuel's pillow, breathing in the scent of him. And for a moment I thought I felt his heartbeat again, pumping rhythmically through me, lulling me into a deep and restful sleep.
Chapter Six
In the morning I put on my jeans but still wore Emmanuel's shirt. I didn't want to take it off—the soft cotton, the bigness of it, how it hid me underneath—Emmanuel's shirt made me feel safe.
“We must have all been drugged.” Michael’s hand slapped the table, shaking the coffee in our cups. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.” He nodded. “It’s out of our systems now.” He glanced at me and then quickly stood and paced to the coffee maker, refilling his almost full cup. “What we need to do is just concentrate on the music.”
That humming was still there, though not as strong…but the memory of that kiss last night…like a pilgrim wandering the desert and finally finding water…
“I agree,” I said, keeping my eyes on my coffee. “We should just forget the whole thing and concentrate on the music.”
Emmanuel offered me a ride home—he drove a pickup truck with rust along its fenders and a rattle to its ride. He stopped by the bar and put my bike in the bed. When we got to my place, Emmanuel carried it up the stairs for me.
“Thanks,” I said at my door. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”
“I’ll take you to the hospital.” He didn’t say it like he was offering—more like he was telling me what was going to happen.
“I’ll be fine.”
Emmanuel stepped close to me, and a shiver ran down my spine. “Please,” he said, his voice all soft and melty.
Why refuse him? Some idea of pride—that I can do everything on my own. That I shouldn’t accept help from anyone but Megan. But she was gone.
“Thanks,
I just need a few minutes to get myself together. You can wait in the living room.” I didn’t look up at him, just turned my back to open the door, feeling the heat of him right behind me.
I showered and put on sweatpants and one of my own T-shirts. When I came out, Emmanuel stood. "Here," I said, holding out his shirt. "Thanks for letting me borrow it."
"Of course." He took the shirt, seeming to avoid touching me in the process.
We drove across town to the hospital. I knew the route so well that I could have walked it in my sleep. Emmanuel stopped in front of the main entrance and put the old truck into park. "I'll meet you up there," he said.
"You don't need to do that, really. I’ll be fine."
“They don’t like people to be alone after this kind of thing."
"I don't suffer from a lot of the side effects."
He met my gaze and bit down on his lip. I started to lean toward him—as if a magnet drew me. Then he broke eye contact. Turning forward, he nodded. "Sure," he said. "I'll see you at band practice tomorrow?"
"Yeah," I said, my lips dry, throat aching.
I opened the door, but Emmanuel grabbed my hand before I could get out. That zing of electricity was there, but felt more like pins and needles than a live wire, now. I wondered how long it would take for the drugs to totally leave my system. It occurred to me I should tell Dr. Tor about it. "Darling," Emmanuel said when I didn't look at him.
"Yeah?"
"Call me if you need anything."
"Okay." I pulled away. The door creaked when I slammed it shut. As I went around in the revolving door, I looked back over my shoulder. Emmanuel's eyes found mine—a sudden, almost painful surge of electric current seemed to leap between us. The door kept going and I went with it, breaking the link between us. I stepped into the hospital lobby, breathless and lightheaded. Whatever they dosed us with was one hell of a drug.
Dr. Issa Tor and a representative from "Be the Difference" smiled at me like I was some kind of hero. "Thank you so much for doing this again," Dr. Tor said.
The representative, a man in his early fifties with gray hair, a friendly smile, and the pallor of a person who spent too much time under florescent lights, held his hand out to me. "I'm Jimmy Smith. It's a pleasure to meet you."
I went to take his hand, and a snap of static electricity shocked us. We both jerked back. And then we laughed. "Sorry about that," I said, looking down at my hand. It looked fine. Normal. Pulsing? I breathed in, smelling the current in the air.
Issa looked at me, his brows bunched together. Jimmy Smith shook his head. "Must be a storm coming," he said.
"Please," Issa said. "Let's sit." He gestured to a table and the surrounding chairs. Blonde wood cabinets labeled with things like tongue depressors, needles and gloves covered the walls. The air was stale, smelling of carpet cleaner and French fries. I could picture staff stealing away in here for lunch.
We sat down, me on one side of the table, them on the other. Jimmy took a big breath, his face turning serious. "Before we get into the paperwork,” I said. “There’s something I need to tell you. I don't know if it affects the procedure today, but”—I took another breath—“Someone slipped drugs into my drink last night."
"What do you mean?" Dr. Tor asked, his face going a little pale.
"I was at the parade where the attack happened."
Both men sat back from the table, as though my words had pushed them into their chairs. I smiled and blushed, feeling suddenly awkward, as if being there and witnessing that horrible thing left a stain on me. My face burned hotter when I thought about after the parade. The way I'd attacked Michael. The way I'd felt Emmanuel's heart beating... mesmerizing.
"Can you excuse us for a moment?" Issa asked, turning to Jimmy. Smith gripped the arms of his chair and his neck snapped to look at Issa like a lizard, fast and focused. They stared at each, and tension built in the air until I felt a little like I was suffocating. Why would they make a room like this with no windows?
Smith pushed his chair back and cleared his throat before nodding at me, then left the room. There was silence for a few moments after the door clicked shut. I like that sound: well-oiled metal jolting into place.
Issa spread his fingers on the table and smiled at me. "So you were at the parade?"
"Yes, and I was drinking, and I think someone put something in my beer." I said it with my shoulders back, like I wasn't ashamed.
Issa nodded. "What was your experience?" he asked.
"The..." I paused for a moment, unsure how to describe the feelings that had ridden me. That I could still feel traveling through my veins. "I guess you would call them physical hallucinations."
"In what way?"
I stared at the table, focusing on the grain of the fake wood. "Like..." I wet my lips, feeling that emptiness and the hunger it inspired. "I could feel things." I glanced up at the doctor. He was staring at me, his eyes narrowed, head nodding slightly, as if agreeing with me. "I could feel my friend's heartbeat. And..." I didn't want to tell him about Michael; it wasn't really any of his business.
Issa leaned forward and smiled at me. I kept my eyes off his. "Darling, I'm your doctor. You can tell me anything."
"I kissed someone—without realizing I was doing it," I answered honestly. I looked up at him; he didn't seem surprised. "I had to be pulled off him."
Issa nodded. "We can continue with the operation," he said.
"Don't you want to test me or something?"
He shook his head. "That's unnecessary. I'll invite Jimmy back in." He stood and we continued. Everything was the same as the other times I'd donated. We signed paperwork. They explained the operation to me. Needles in my hips, extraction of bone marrow, etc. I wouldn't be awake for any of it. Every time it was 100, 99, 98, 97, and I was gone.
I was in a dark crevice in the earth with just a slit of light above me. Floating toward it, I felt a sense of peace. I blinked at the bright light and saw a figure standing over me. My mouth was dry, and I swallowed. It seemed more difficult than it needed to be. I blinked again, and a halo of golden red hair blurred almost into focus…it was so familiar…
"Megan?" I strained to open my eyes. There was nothing but fluorescent tubes of light above me. Struggling with a woozy head and weak arms, I pushed myself into a sitting position. I was in a long hallway, my gurney pushed off to the side. A doctor and nurse I didn't recognize walked by, their heads down, conferring with each other.
Effervescent red hair bounced through a door at the end of the hall. "Megan!" I tried to yell, but only a croak came out. Pulling the thin blankets off me, I swung my legs to the side of the gurney and lowered my feet to the floor. It was laminated and cold against my bare toes. "Megan," I called again, using the gurney to push myself into a standing position.
"Darling, you shouldn't be up," I heard behind me, but I stepped toward the door. My legs were soft and unsure; I stumbled a step forward and clutched onto the gurney to keep from falling. A hand touched my shoulder. I wheeled around, flailing out at the person trying to stop me. It was Dr. Tor. He took a step back to avoid my attempted blow, his hands up. "Darling, you need to lie down."
My vision darkened at the edges, keeping the doctor at the center of a pinpoint. I turned back to chase Megan, determination strong in my gut. I felt a tug on my arm and looked down to see the needle in my IV straining to break loose. I ripped it out, a small spurt of blood shooting from the wound.
"Darling." It was the doctor again; he was in front of me. "You need to lie down." I tried to push past him but ended up just kind of falling onto him. He held me up, his arms around my waist, warm fingers on my naked back.
"No," I said. It came out hoarse and low, barely a protest.
"Darling, please," he said, his voice close to me, breath touching my cheek.
I wrenched free, falling backward, landing on my butt. The floor felt cold and wet against my bare skin. Suddenly a nurse I recognized—Harriet with the small scar—was by my side. "Darling, wh
at are you doing?" she asked, crouching next to me.
"Megan," I said.
Her face fell into a deep frown that conveyed sympathy and disappointment in one sad expression. "Megan's gone, sweetheart. I'm sorry, but she's not coming back."
The edges of my vision darkened again, slowly closing on the nurse's lips, bare and honest. "No," I whispered before I slipped back into that dark crevice.
When I woke again, the sun slanted through a window to my left, covering my body in a warm glow. I was in a hospital bed this time, a blanket and sheet tucked around me. The IV was gone, and the news played on a TV in the upper left corner.
"You're awake," a voice said. I turned right to find I had a roommate: an older white guy, his mustache yellow, an oxygen feeder resting on it. He wore the same gown I did. It was loose around his shoulders, gray hairs sprouted from his chest and back, reaching toward his face.
"Yes," I said, my voice cracked. My side table held the ubiquitous yellow cup with its straw. When I reached out for it, I groaned. Everything hurt. The memory of falling in the hallway came flashing back to me. Embarrassment chased on the memory's heels.
I made a fool of myself.
I'd always woken up feeling fine. What was different this time? A shiver passed over me as I remember Megan leaning over me. A hallucination? Or a reason to hope?
"Can you believe this?" the man said, pointing at the TV. "That guy who survived the crazy druggie attack? He got killed right here in this hospital."
"He did?" I looked up to the TV, where a news anchor stood in front of the hospital.
"Yeah, aren't you listening to me? Someone stabbed him through the eye.” he said.
"Oh.”
"Don't you realize what this means?" He leaned on the bedrail, the oxygen tube straining against his upper lip. "It's starting."
"All right, that's enough of that, Mr. Combers," a nurse said as she walked through the door.
