Dreams of Shreds and Tatters Page 20

  “They’re fine. I’ve been careful. Were they right? Rabia and Noor? That I’d bring you no joy?”

  Lailah pressed a button and the phone went black. Darkness filled the room. “I’m not sorry I didn’t shoot you, if that’s what you mean. Not yet. How do you feel?”

  “Weird,” Rae admitted. “Restless. I feel... echoes.” Laughter, dancing, firelight. The constant bacchanal chorus, waiting for her to join them. She leaned closer into Lailah’s warmth.

  “Do you understand it?” the other woman asked. Her breath drifted across Rae’s cheek.

  “It’s mostly noise,” she lied, grateful for the darkness that hid her expression. The way is opening. Rescuing Alex and Antja had distracted Lailah from her search for the door. Rae wasn’t sure she wanted to remind her of it.

  “Mostly?”

  The mattress shifted with Lailah’s weight. Rae caught a suggestion of movement as her eyes adjusted to the dark. “What’s the matter? Do you think I’m dangerous?” Her smile felt like a stranger’s. “You can always use the handcuffs again, if it will make you feel better.”

  Lailah’s breath caught, held, left on a harsh sigh. “Rae—”

  “Lailah.” She crawled forward, pressing Lailah back, pinning her knees against the bed. The woman could have broken free in an instant, but for that moment Rae felt strong. Dangerous. “I’m cold.”

  This wasn’t her. She didn’t know who this was. But—as she dragged the borrowed sweater over her head and tossed it aside, as she moved forward to straddle Lailah’s thighs, as she caught the other woman’s hands and pressed them to her waist—she thought she wouldn’t mind being this person for a while.

  LATER, WHILE LAILAH slept, Rae slipped out of bed and eased the curtains aside. Her side throbbed; they hadn’t been careful. Nail marks burned her back, and fresh bruises ached down the inside of her thighs.

  The stars were louder than ever.

  Beyond the window the wind rushed wild and cold. She could almost feel it tugging at her hair, sliding over her bare skin. Her reflection in the glass rippled like water. Rae raised a hand, but the ghost girl didn’t. Instead she turned, lips moving soundlessly as she glanced over her shoulder.

  Not her reflection at all. A taller woman, hooded and blindfolded. Her white dress fluttered in the breeze. Behind her a man sat cross-legged on a stone floor, shirtless in the cold. Gaunt and dark-haired, his arms and chest covered in swirling scars, the graceful looping script Rae still couldn’t read.

  The woman looked back at Rae, looked through her with bound eyes. Dark stains soaked the blindfold. From the cheekbones down she shared the maenad’s face, but her smile was less cruel.

  My sister’s way is not the only way. Her lips moved, and the words shivered deep inside Rae’s head. There are other roads besides that of flesh and blood.

  “The road of needles,” Rae whispered, “or the road of pins.” Her breath fogged the glass.

  Exactly. Which one do you choose?

  Rae reached out in wonder, but her hand touched the icy windowpane and the vision shattered. She stood there, staring into the darkness, until her teeth began to chatter. Finally she crawled back into bed, huddling into Lailah’s warmth until the starsong faded enough to let her sleep.

  WAKE UP.

  The voice called Blake out of the dark, vanishing again as soon as he reached for it, leaving him alone once more. The memory of terror filled him, of cold and straps and mocking voices—

  The cold, at least, was gone. He floated in softness, bloodwarm and sticky. Everything smelled of honey, raw and sweet and cloying; the taste filled his mouth and made him want to gag. Only his fingers responded when he tried to move, curling through thick fluid. His eyes were sealed shut—when he forced them open the world was a golden blur, like an insect staring out of amber.

  Panic returned, hot and sharp, and he thrashed. He tried to scream, but his mouth and nose and eyes were full of honey. Shadows moved outside his amber prison, and he heard a voice as if through deep water.

  “It’s too soon.”

  The light dimmed to the faintest orange glimmer, then died. Blake dimmed with it.

  “WAKE UP.”

  Hands again, more hands, shaking his sharply. His throat ached as if he’d been screaming.“Blake, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

  Black gave way to red and then to gold. Blake flinched away from light and touch. The motion jerked him back into waking— he could move again.

  He raised his hands to his face. No honey this time, no hooks and shattered bones. The stickiness on his skin was only sweat and tears. He was whole. He convulsed in relief and buried his face in the sheets.

  Sheets, pillows, bed—no water, no examining table, no warm waxen prison. Only cool, clean cloth. His stomach cramped and he swallowed bile; the sour taste eased the sweetness that filmed his tongue.

  “It’s all right. It was only a dream.” He shuddered at the familiar rasp of Alain’s voice. A dream. A black and drowning dream. That was all it had been—a nightmare. Horrors nested like matryoshka dolls, but now he was safe.

  That certainty faltered as he opened his sticky eyes. A strange leafy ceiling spread above him, dripping with vines. Globes of light hung like fruit amongst the leaves. The walls were the color of amber, and as translucent. Shadows moved beyond them.

  Alain stood beside the bed. His hair was black today, shading to viridian where the light touched it. The color matched the embroidered tendrils on his coat. He sat when Blake opened his eyes, a frown of concern giving way to a wry smile.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty. About time you woke up.”

  Blake’s shoulders shook, and a sound more mewl than sob scraped between his clenched teeth. He threw an arm around Alain’s waist, pressing his sticky face against the other boy’s thigh. “I dreamed—” The words wouldn’t come. What had he dreamed? All he remembered was terror and pain and blackness.

  “Shh,” Alain whispered. “It’s all right.” He stroked Blake’s back in slow circles. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

  Blake’s tears slowed and dried, leaving him raw-eyed and aching. Sheets the color of ripe plums snared his legs when he tried to sit up. Leaf shadows dappled the room, swaying gently though the air was still. The colors were too rich, over-saturated, and he wondered if he was feverish or if it was only a trick of his burning eyes. His sinuses ached, reminding him of those forgotten nightmares.

  “Where are we?”

  Alain’s brow-ring flashed with his frown. “The palace. Don’t you remember?”

  A memory sparked but didn’t catch. “I remember... a door. A storm and a door.”

  “That’s right. You made the door. You opened it and brought us here.”

  “There were monsters—” He shuddered at the scattered images. Darkness given form and purpose.

  “Don’t worry.” Alain wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “They can’t find us now. We’re safe here.”

  Blake curled into his warmth. Alain’s scent was strange: musk and tangy sap, with a bitter hint of clove. His touch was familiar, though. Safe.

  “Something’s wrong,” Blake murmured, the words muffled against Alain’s shoulder. “Why can’t I remember?”

  “What you did wasn’t easy. It will come back.” Callused fingers stroked the back of Blake’s neck, raising goosebumps. “Tomorrow we see the King, and he’ll make everything right.”

  The King. It meant something. A promise he hadn’t yet made. Memories slipped through his fingers, elusive and poisonous as mercury. “I can’t—”

  “It’s all right.” Alain kissed him, catching his lower lip between sharp teeth. His tongue tasted of honey. “It will all come back. Don’t worry.” The scattered lights swam like stars in the darkness of his eyes.

  Shadows moved outside the amber room. Human shapes and inhuman, winged and gaunt, horned and crook-legged. “They’re watching us,” Blake said.

  Alain’s chuckle vibrated along Blake’s collarbones, his tongue flickering
hot against the sharp pulse in Blake’s neck. “There’s nothing they haven’t seen before.” He pushed Blake down, stripping back the clinging sheets.

  “Don’t—” His breath hitched as Alain trailed kisses down his stomach.

  “Shh.” Warm breath tickled the soft skin below his navel and his hands clenched in the sheets. “It’s all right now.”

  It wasn’t all right. It wasn’t remotely all right. But his breath came too sharp and fast to speak.

  They moved together on the vine-shadowed bed, and shadows watched them through the walls.

  17

  Kingdom Come

  DARKNESS EBBED, WASHING Liz ashore like so much driftwood. Her limbs were heavy, her head soft and dull and dream-sticky. Cold stone gouged her shoulder blades and leeched the warmth from her flesh; her hands and feet were numb. Her skin was tender and sunburn-raw. The rush of her pulse deafened her.

  No, not her own blood. A much vaster tide.

  She pried her eyes open and moaned in wonder at the sky. Green as glass, green as poison, strewn with unfamiliar stars. Low and heavy and crushingly close. Clouds raced overhead, dark and purple as bruises, moving fast enough to dizzy her. She shut her eyes tight, tearing her nails on the stones as she fought for balance. The world was moving too fast, would shrug her off into the void.

  No, she told herself, rolling onto her side in a fetal ball. She had to get up.

  One by one her limbs uncurled. Every muscle ached, like the aftermath of a bad flu. Fighting nausea, she swallowed spit and waited for earth and sky to right themselves. Her mouth tasted of sour sleep and copper; a crust of dried blood itched against her cheek and upper lip. She scrubbed it away with the neck of her T-shirt as she sat up.

  She sat on a stone quay. Black waves churned against the seawall, each breaker misting the air with a harsh chemical smell that stung her nose and throat as she breathed it in. Rust red fog rose from the water, thickening to bloody clouds on the horizon. Liz thought she saw the outline of a city in the distant haze, but staring too long only made her head ache. She turned to face the city behind her instead.

  It sprawled like any city, the seawall lined with smaller buildings that might have been warehouses or shipyards—though she saw no boats in the water—or houses. Further in, the skyline swept up into the sky-piercing towers she’d seen before. No shining glass or steel here, no sharp modern angles. Grey and yellow stone, green and ivory-white, all sinuous curves and twists. Buildings sleek as bare bones, rooftops ridged like vertebrae, mosaics and roof tiles slick and pebbled as a lizard’s skin. Organic. Skeletal. Visceral.

  Carcosa. She had done it. She was here. Pride was lost to her stomach’s seasick roll.

  Twilight shadows filled the empty streets, and the poison sky rinsed everything with verdigris. Liz was glad not to face the angry red star, but without its heat the air was damp and algid. Not Vancouver’s sharp-toothed winter chill, but enough to make her bones ache. She wore the T-shirt and underwear she’d fallen asleep in. Tourists never knew how to dress for the local weather.

  “I won’t be here long,” she whispered, and winced as her voice carried through the still, damp air.

  The street was paved with ochre stone, unwinding into the fogshrouded heart of the city. To the palace. Towers loomed overhead, leaning together to whisper secrets, watching her with dark windows. Ivy and other vines clung thick to the walls, their leaves rasping a soft susurrus though no breeze stirred them. Streetlamps grew from the pavement, hissing with purple flames.

  Liz walked carefully, but the stone still chewed her feet. She glanced at Blake’s ring, but it was disinclined to be a compass or a key right now. Or a pair of shoes.

  The fog thickened the farther she walked, and tiny flames flickered in the mist. Shadows passed in front of the lights, and running footsteps and distant voices echoed between the buildings. Liz never saw the runners and thought better of trying to follow them. Her neck and shoulders twisted stiff as rebar and her legs ached to run, but panic would only leave her lost and bleeding worse than she already was.

  Were these the revelers she’d seen before, the ones who’d met Blake at the shore? They hadn’t seemed shy then. Did Carcosa have inhabitants besides shadows and disembodied voices? Did she want to meet them if it did? Her right hand clenched until the ring carved an angry line in her flesh.

  At the next crossroad she heard water—the splash of a fountain instead of the ocean’s pulse. The violet light burned brighter in that direction. A trick? A mirage? Maybe, but she had to find something but empty streets and whispers or she’d lose her mind.

  She rounded a curve and the street opened into a circular plaza lit by tall lamps. A fountain played in the center of the courtyard, a statue of a nude woman rising from the water. Her face was lovely and serene and spotted with lichen. Tubes and shunts jutted from her limbs and torso, trickling dark water from breasts and womb. Liz grimaced but moved closer, fascinated all the same. The lip of the fountain was thick with ivy; beneath the vines, a graceful looping script traced the stone, no alphabet she recognized.

  As she leaned in to study the letters, movement flickered in the corner of her eye. She spun and nearly fell. Her heart lodged in her throat, and panic scalded her already-raw nerves.

  A figure stood in the shadow on the other side of the fountain. He took a step closer, into the light, and her heartbeat roared in her ears. Deafened, she could only read the shape of her name on his lips.

  “Blake?” She choked on his name.

  He moved toward her, vines curling around his boots. The light washed his face a deathly grey, bruised his lips blue as anemones. “Liz? Is it really you?

  It’s a trick— But he reached for her and his hands were clammy and callused, solid and real. A sob bubbled up in her throat and he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

  “Blake.” His name was a prayer on her lips. The softness of his hair, the fit of her cheek against his shoulder, the dry autumn scent of his skin. He brushed his lips against her hair and she sobbed harder.

  “I heard you calling,” he whispered. “I thought I was hallucinating.”

  “I dreamed of you. I saw you drowning. I saw the thing at the bottom—”

  He hugged her tighter. “It’s okay. It’s over now.”

  She drew back, smearing tears across her cheeks. “We have to get out of here.”

  The corners of his mouth turned down. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Of course you can. We’re dreaming. We have to find a way to wake up.”

  He touched her face. “Liz, I don’t think I can wake up. I don’t think there’s anything for me to wake up to.”

  “You’re still alive!” She swallowed a lump of doubt. How much time had passed here? What might have happened in the waking world? Her head throbbed; her hands throbbed. “You’re still alive,” she whispered. “And we can’t stay here. That thing wants to eat you.”

  “Liz. It did eat me.”

  He laid cool fingers against her lips before she could protest. “I drowned, and He was waiting at the bottom. He ate me, and spat me back onto the shore. This is my home now. I can’t leave.”

  He raised a hand, and she saw the vines clinging to his wrist. Growing from him. Tendrils sank into his skin, binding him to the fountain.

  Fresh tears blinded her and she shook her head. “I won’t leave you here.”

  “No.” He pulled her close again, pressing his lips against her forehead. “I know you won’t.”

  Vines stirred around her feet, prickling against her calves like insect feet, twining slowly up her legs. She wanted to scream, but the sudden pain in her hands stole her voice. The left throbbed with her pulse, and the right burned so hot she thought her flesh must have already blackened.

  “It’s all right,” Blake whispered, still holding her. All she could smell now was sap, and the bitter moisture from the fountain. “You can stay here with me. Isn’t that what you really want?”

  The vines re
ached her knees now, feelers pricking at her skin, searching for a way in.

  “Just us,” he continued. “No more fear, no more pain.”

  “You can’t live without pain.” But oh, how she wished she could. Just for a little while.

  “Not out there, maybe. It’s different here.” His hands rested on her shoulders, the leaves on his wrists shivering against her neck.

  Rest, they whispered. Peace.

  “No.” She drew back, knocking his hands away.

  His smile faltered and grew sad. “Do you think you have a choice?”

  She recoiled, but ivy trapped her feet and she fell. The jolt jarred both her hands and she screamed. The ring glowed. Silver melted, spilling across her hand to encase her in a gleaming glove, burning where it touched. With a shriek of pain and fear, she tore at the vines with that shining gauntlet. Leaves browned at its touch, tendrils shriveling.

  “Liz!”

  Blake—or whatever wore his face—reached for her, and she slapped his hand away. His skin blackened at the blow, withering like the vegetation.

  “No,” she said again, stronger this time, and ripped away another handful of vines. Beads of blood welled on her legs.

  “No.” With the third denial she was free, scrambling back across the stones. The vines retreated with an angry hiss, and the shape that had been Blake curled and crumbled into dust.

  The ring was a ring once more, and the pain in her hand cooled and faded. With a sob, she pounded her fist against the ground to bring it back.

  “You needn’t go out of your way to injure yourself. This place is dangerous enough already.”

  She didn’t startle at Seker’s voice. Her nerves were worn through.

  His sandals slapped softly against the stones. Liz straightened, wiping salt and snot from her face. She stared up at him for a moment, then took his offered hand and let him draw her to her feet.

  “Did you see?”

  He nodded, his face grave. “That was just a little treachery. The kind that grows throughout the city. Did you think it would be easy?”