by Kristie Cook
My consciousness drifted off as I held on to his face. And then I heard his lovely voice, distant and muffled: “I’ll come back. I promise.”
My dream-self felt surprised and confused. This is new.
Then clear and close: “Alexis.”
It wasn’t the same voice.
Evil! Daemoni! Evil!
The alarms of my sixth sense rang in my head. The stunning face disappeared as my heart nearly jumped out of my chest. I shot up and realized I sat on my bed again. I glanced around the darkness for the source of the gravelly voice.
“Who’s there?” I asked, my voice thundering through the silence.
A shadow shifted in the corner. Two small, red lights glowed from about two-thirds up the wall. I realized they were eyes. It can’t really be Daemoni—can it? We hadn’t been bothered for over seven years. Not a single visit or even a threat. Nothing at all. They had what they wanted.
“Don’t you know?”
The shadow moved forward, enough for the light from my clock to slightly illuminate a face—pale, bluish-white in the clock’s glare, glowing eyes, and . . . fangs. The light reflected off his glimmering teeth, bared in an evil grin, if that’s what you could call it, and I knew for sure those were fangs. And I knew immediately what he was. From what I could see, he favored some of my characters, as if he’d stepped out of the pages of the books I wrote.
Such a strange feeling—to feel as though I’d awakened in my usual way but know I was dreaming again. I had to be. Monsters were real, but vampires were not.
“C-Claudius?” My voice shook. I knew this dream was about to become a terrible nightmare. With his dark hair floating around the sides of his face, this visitor looked similar to my Claudius, leader of the evilest vampire nest in my make-believe world.
“Ha!” the shadow barked. “So you do see the resemblance.”
I didn’t respond. I stared wide-eyed at the barely visible face. My heart pounded in my ears, and my lungs seemed unable to pull in any air. I wanted to scream myself awake. But I couldn’t. I was frozen.
The vampire came closer, almost near enough to touch . . . if I dared to reach out.
“I am not your dim-witted Claudius,” he growled, “but my world and my ways are very similar. In fact, too similar. You are bold—and foolish—to tell the humans.”
In a strange way, the dream made him more real. More frightening than any of my characters, even Claudius. The timbre of his voice held promises of horror, the sound more terrifying than I ever imagined when I wrote.
But his words made no sense.
“I don’t understand.”
“I am not stupid, woman, and I know you are not entirely ignorant. I know who you are. You know what I am. You have crossed the line in revealing our truths. You must stop writing and exposing us, Alexis. Or we will stop you ourselves.”
The flaming red eyes narrowed. The nostrils flared.
The vampire cocked his head and growled again. “No more, Alexis, or we will come for you!”
Pop!
The overhead light suddenly flooded the bedroom with brightness. I was sitting bolt upright in my bed, my heart hammering again, wide awake with the bang of the door and glare of the light. I blinked at Mom’s figure standing at the foot of my bed.
“Are you okay?” she demanded.
My eyes adjusted, and now I could see her looking anything but vulnerable, though she only wore a short, baby-doll nightgown. Petite, but tough. She stood with her body tense, coiled and ready to fight, as her narrowed eyes scanned the room. Then she rushed to my side and braced her hands against my face. She seemed to appraise every inch of me.
“I’m fine.” I twisted my head, pulling my face from her grip.
“You don’t sound or look fine.”
“You scared the crap out of me.” I lay back down and closed my eyes. “And I had a bad dream. That’s all.”
She stood there for a long moment, and I could feel her eyes still on me. I never heard her footsteps, but the light switched off and the door clicked softly in the latch when she left. Mom was used to me having bad dreams. She had no need to question me.
When I awoke again, sunlight streamed through the blinds, creating narrow lines of light on the boring beige carpet by my bed. I lay on my stomach and stared at the floor for a while, not wanting to be awake. Then I remembered the dream—not the usual memory-dream, but the new one. I turned over and looked around the room. Of course, no evidence of the vampire. He was just a dream, but it had felt so real and was just so uncharacteristic. Last night was the first time I’d dreamt of anything but those memories since the day my husband disappeared into enemy hands.
Then I remembered the other anomaly. The whispered promise. But neither the lovely voice nor the memory-dream had returned the rest of the night. Damn vampire. I closed my eyes and tried to pull the face I wanted to see into my vision. A pointless effort. Only a vague image appeared. I was forgetting.
Forcing myself to let it go, I focused on the present, specifically on my son and my writing. If not for those, my life would be just as boring and bleak as the beige carpet. Dorian lit up everything. At one time, he was the only light keeping me from straying away into the complete darkness of insanity. If his father hadn’t already set precedence, it would be hard to believe I could love anyone as much as I loved Dorian.
I recalled the significance of the day and rolled over and out of bed. But the little bit of hope I’d had last night was already gone, and I could feel that today was not going to be a good one. I felt all wrong, as though something inside ticked away like a time bomb. It was stupid to think this day would be the one, which was probably why I felt so messed up this morning. I’d let my hopes up too high.
Suck it up for now. Need to see Dorian.
It was after eight, and Mom and Dorian were probably getting ready to leave. I wanted to say goodbye to him, and then I could lose myself in my writing, which would hopefully make this day disappear quickly. Tomorrow, I would be back to normal. As normal as I could be, anyway.
“Hi, Mom,” Dorian greeted as I trudged into the kitchen. His face lit up, his mouth stretched into that all-too-familiar, beautiful smile, and his eyes sparkled as he pulled his jacket on. I’d almost missed him. If I had and with the mood I was in, Psycho might have reared her ugly head. But since he was still here, brightening my morning, I could enjoy a few minutes of being Almost Alexis.
“Hey, little man.” I ruffled his hair—the snow-white color had been unexpected, but I had a feeling a similar-looking towhead had been running around a couple hundred years ago—and gave him a big smile, too. Only Dorian could elicit a real smile from me. “You ready for school?”
He shrugged. “I guess. Just today and tomorrow, and then it’s spring break. And Uncle Owen’s coming!”
“No fighting at school, okay?” I warned. “I really don’t want to make another trip to the principal’s office or have to ground you for your vacation.”
“I’ll try.” He gave me the same promise every day . . . and rarely followed through on it. When it came to protecting loved ones, he had control of his anger about as much as I did. Usually, he fought kids who teased him about me, his weird mother.
“You said the same thing yesterday,” Mom reminded him.
“That stupid Joey! I hate him, Mimi! He said my dad’s a no good shithead who didn’t want me.”
“Honey, that’s a bad word. You are too young to be using such language,” Mom said.
“I didn’t say it! Joey did!”
I fought back a laugh, but the anger at the memory flashed in Dorian’s eyes—tiny sparks in the gold flecks around his pupils—and I suddenly felt renewed irritation, too. Once I became “America’s favorite young author,” the media quickly discovered I’d been pregnant at the tender age of nineteen, and the father was nowhere to be found. People made up their own stories from there. So when Dorian didn’t feel a need to protect me, he defended his so-called deadbeat dad. Because
he knew better.
“Good for you,” I said, giving Dorian a squeeze. I would have done the same thing—punched the kid in the face. In fact, the lunatic in me this morning wanted to hunt down the little brat right now. The more rational part of me at least wanted to find the kid’s parents and give them a lesson on how to teach their child respect and compassion.
Mom shook her head disapprovingly. I ignored her.
“Don’t you ever let anyone talk about your daddy that way,” I said. “He’s a wonderful man, and he loves you very much. It’s not his fault he’s not here. You know that, right?”
He nodded, his cupid-bow lips quivering with sadness. I held my arms out, and he gave me a bear hug—as big of a hug as a six-year-old can. He knocked me to the floor, and I gave an exaggerated cry. He laughed and showed me his guns, flexing his biceps. I ooh’ed and aah’ed over them. They were actually impressive. He had his dad’s strength.
Then he crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Mom and then me, his eyes lit up with mischief. “I’ll stop fighting if you get me a dog. Then I’ll have a friend, and I’ll ignore everyone else.”
I bit my lip, not knowing whether I would laugh or cry. I knew how Dorian felt to want a friend so badly. I also knew he would promise anything to have a dog, which he’d been begging us for since his last birthday. I had a hard time believing, though, that he would stop fighting. It was just part of his nature.
I’d wanted to put him in an Aikido class to teach him self-control, but Mom wouldn’t allow it—his unusual strength would draw attention we didn’t need. So I taught him what little I knew and had Owen work with him whenever possible.
“I turn seven in twenty-eight days,” Dorian reminded us when we didn’t respond. And then I did chuckle.
“We’ll see,” I finally said.
He scowled. “That means no in Mom-talk.”
Mom covered her mouth, hiding the laugh I saw in her eyes. “How about no fighting between now and your birthday, and then we’ll discuss it?”
My brows popped up with surprise. She was the one against adopting a pet. A dog would be another responsibility to worry about if we ever had to go on the run again. She must have figured Dorian wouldn’t be able to hold up his end of the bargain.
“Deal,” he said, and I internally cringed. I agreed with Mom on this one.
I gave Dorian another hug, and then he and Mom left so she could take him to school before going to the store. My book sales could support us, and probably the entire Amadis, but even before my career took off, my writing had always remained high on her priority list. That was probably why she’d stayed with us this long.
As soon as I was alone, I poured a cup of coffee, went out the back door, and slipped around the side of the house for a cigarette. When I heard Mom’s car return nearly an hour later, I snuffed out my third one and drained my third cup of coffee, then hurried inside. I munched on chocolate-chip cookies when she came through the door and dumped an armful of grocery bags on the counter. She eyed me, her mahogany eyes filled with disdain.
“Those are healthy,” she said as she placed the bags on the counter. Was that accusation in her voice or my imagination?
“Breakfast of champions,” I replied, an edge to my voice.
“Alexis—”
Suddenly, the ticking that had been in my head all morning grew deafening. Then some kind of switch flipped. I couldn’t control the onslaught of emotions. I wanted to lash out.
Psycho Alexis pushed toward the surface.
“I don’t want to hear it, Mom,” I snapped, marching out of the kitchen. “I fucked up by not having a girl, but I gave it my best shot. I’m writing the damn books. At least back off everything else, okay? I’m trying as hard as I fucking can.”
“Alexis!” she admonished, following me into my office. She hated my language, which was exactly why I used it. “I just wanted to remind you Owen will be here later. You might want to clean yourself up.”
I looked down at myself. I wore the same raggedy T-shirt and sweatpants I had slept in . . . and had worn yesterday. Pretty much my normal attire. What the hell do I care what Owen thinks?
“I’m fine,” I snarled.
I grabbed my laptop and headed outside. The early spring morning in Atlanta, Georgia, had been a little crisp earlier, but the air quickly warmed. The fresh scent and warm sun calmed me, and my mood improved, although guilt sat like a lump in my throat. I set up the laptop on the patio table, opened the document, and then stared at the screen. For a long time. I couldn’t focus on stringing words into meaningful sentences. Giving up, I gazed absentmindedly across the yard, thinking about the turn of events last night. Well, the change in my dreams, which felt like something more. More real.
I considered writing out the evil vampire Claudius, after that rendition of him interrupted my visions last night. Maybe the time had come to kill him off. Of course, he was one of my primary villains in this last book of the series, so he was necessary until the end. But I was pissed at him now. How dare the asshole harass me at night! I eventually dismissed him for the time being after deciding he would die, a final death, by the end of the book.
Tired of thinking so much about the stupid fictional vamp, I closed my eyes and tilted my face toward the sun, focusing on the heat of the rays on my skin, giving me paradoxical goose bumps. I felt the burn of someone watching me, but I ignored the feeling. It had to be Mom, and although I owed her an apology, I didn’t want to deal with her yet. With the warm sun washing over me, I actually felt . . . well, not good, but at least no longer Psycho. Then a slight breeze came up, light against my skin and just a little cool. And with it, a familiar scent.
Mangos and papayas, lime and sage.
My eyes flew open, and I sat straight up, nearly knocking my computer off the table.
“Relax, it’s just me,” Mom said. She placed a tray of food on the table. “Seared tuna on greens with a lime vinaigrette dressing and fruit. I thought you’d be ready for lunch.”
I eyed the tray and realized the food must have given off that mix of aromas. How could I even think it’s anything else? Stupid sevens, that’s how. I slumped back into my chair, feeling the emotional wound pulling open again as if a physical gash had been carved into my chest. My body quickly healed cuts, burns, and bruises, but not this most painful kind of mutilation. I supposed when you had an unbreakable bond and the world tried to sever it anyway, that kind of injury to the soul would never scar over.
Swallowing against the renewed pain, I moved the laptop out of the way and took a plate from Mom. She joined me across the table. When I looked up at her, I noticed someone standing behind her. Quite a ways behind her—at least seventy-five yards, on the other side of the pool, by the fence lining the back of my five-acre property. I froze at his sudden appearance, sure he hadn’t been there just a minute ago.
Something fluttered in my stomach, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. I stood up and took a couple steps toward him, not able to control myself. He just watched me, his arms folded across his chest. Could it be? I had a desperate need to see his face. I slowly moved another step or two toward him, frightened and curious and . . . hopeful. Who are you?
“Alexis?” Mom startled me out of my trance.
I turned back to look at her, nearly forgetting she was there. She had twisted in her seat to see what had me ogling.
“Who is that?” I asked, raising my arm toward the man.
She brushed her chestnut hair from her face and peered behind me with her inhumanly sharp eyes. “Who? I don’t see anyone.”
I turned back to him. He was gone.
“I thought . . .” What the hell? Did he flash? Was it him? Or a protector? Or just my imagination?
“Probably one of the landscaping guys,” Mom finally said. “They have a different crew out today.”
“No Amadis?”
“Not until Owen comes later.”
“Oh. He just kind of . . . disappeared. And he w
as staring at me.”
Mom raised her eyebrows. “There would be many reasons for that, my dear.”
I looked at her for meaning. She just shrugged.
I tried to see the stranger’s face in my mind, but he’d been too far away. His build, though . . . his height, the way he stood . . . so familiar . . .
I slumped back into my chair and stared at my hands in my lap, fighting back tears. It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him. I tried to convince myself. I’d had other instances of mistaken identities, but because this was in my own backyard, it felt different. Worse. Especially because the stranger had simply disappeared, as if he hadn’t existed in the first place. As if I’d been seeing things. It doesn’t hurt. Just having a bad day, is all.
I shoved my plate away and stood up. I had to get out of here. Because it did hurt. It hurt like hell, actually. Because of the stupid date and a glimpse of a guy I didn’t know from Adam, my soul had soared high with the tiniest glint of hope, then dive-bombed into the pavement of reality. All the pieces inside shattered into even smaller ones, if that were even possible, cutting open old wounds and making them throb and bleed again. I clutched at the pendant—my gift for our one and only Christmas together—as if it could soothe the pain.
“You didn’t eat anything.” Mom pointed to my plate, then gestured at me. “You eat all that junk food and look what it’s done to you. I give you something healthy and delicious, and you don’t even touch it.”
The last tick of the bomb sounded. Psycho Alexis could be suppressed no longer, and a switch didn’t just flip this time. The whole bomb exploded.
“I’M NOT HUNGRY, OKAY?” I roared. “Why can’t you just leave me the hell alone?”
The pained shock on her face stabbed me in the gut. I fled to my bedroom.
Who is he? Why did he stare at me? And what did Mom mean?
I went straight into my bathroom, and for the first time in . . . what? . . . probably months, I looked in the full-length mirror and really studied myself. My mouth dropped.