Lost Secret

by Emily Kimelman Gilvey

  Emmanuel dragged me across the room. I fought him, my throat dry, body buzzing, hunger coursing through me. I need to continue that kiss. Keep taking! I'll never be sated.

  A pang of pure revulsion racked through me—an avalanche of shame and fear rolled after the wave of lust. I gagged, my body convulsing against Emmanuel's arms.

  His hold softened, and I dropped to my knees, staring down at the wooden floor, the knots of color, and the heads of nails, my vision pulsing, blurred by tears.

  My hair hung around me in strands, some of it still up, the rest of it torn loose, shielding me from the room. Slowly my breathing returned to normal. I sat back on my heels and looked up.

  Emmanuel was standing over Michael, his hands on the lead singer's wrist. "What's happening?" Michael asked.

  "Everything is fine," Emmanuel said as he released Michael's arm, laying it gently on his chest. "I think we've all had a little too much to drink. Let's go to bed."

  A shudder ran through me. It felt amazing. What the what is happening? Fear chilled the heat inside me. Did someone drug me? I focused on the two men in front of me—that wild need tearing at my insides. “Did you put something in my drink?" I asked, my voice choked.

  “What?” Emmanuel turned to me. “No," he shook his head, his curls bouncing. "Of course not." He sounded insulted. I did just accuse him of drugging me. But how else could this be explained?

  "What about Michael?" I asked. I want to kiss him until he dies. I shuddered at the errant, terrifying thought.

  “No, we’ve all had a lot to drink. And we saw something horrible.” Emmanuel crossed the room to me. "Come on, I'll take you to bed. It's been a rough day for everyone."

  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 want at all.

  I woke up with a start, the room at once familiar and foreign. A dream curled at the edge of my mind, but when I grabbed for it the memories dissipated like thin clouds on a windy day. I flopped back on the pillow, huffing with frustration.

  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. As elusive as the damn dreams.

  Dead but not gone…was Megan a ghost? Was the woman in the cemetery 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.

  I turned away from Emmanuel's candles.

  Taking a fortifying breath I slide the deadbolt back and left the bedroom. 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 this Suki 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 it mean? Dead but not gone?"

  "I'm not sure." He bit his lip in thought, and it did something to me. Something that hurt and felt good. What in the freaking what is going on?

  "Are you lying to me?" I asked, my confusion edged with anger. There must be an explanation for all this!

  "Never." He met my gaze, his eyes shining in the half light. I had a strong urge to climb on top of him and capture those supple lips, feel that coarse stubble scratch my skin.

  I swallowed; it sounded loud in the quiet room. Fear and desire swirled in my stomach as I resisted the pressing need to take him.

  If I stay here one more second I'll kiss him. I'll humiliate myself. I'll hurt him.

  I stood so quickly that I almost tipped over. "I better get back to bed." I rushed back to his room, not giving Emmanuel a chance to respond.

  Pushing the deadbolt into place, I rested my forehead against the door.

  Emmanuel has seen the woman in the cemetery too. She isn't a hallucination. Relief coursed through me even as that strange, powerful hunger beat at my chest.

  Chapter Eight

  I didn't want to take off Emmanuel's shirt—the soft cotton, the bigness of it, how it hid me underneath—it made me feel safe.

  “We must have all been drugged.” Michael’s hand slapped the table, shakin
g 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 with Michael…the way I went after him. 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. We stopped by the bar and he 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.

  “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 the short distance to the hospital. 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. "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.

  I was in a dark crevice 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, what 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.

  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 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.

  He looked over at her. "You're on the front lines," he told her. "By the time it really gets going, I'll probably be dead.” The nurse pulled the curtain between our beds. "The end!" he yelled through the curtain. "The end is coming!"

  "All right, Mr. Combers," she said again, placing her fists on her ample hips. "That's enough."

  A half-hearted grumble was the only response. She turned her attention to me and smiled. "How are you feeling?"

  "Sore," I said with a smile. "And embarrassed."

  She waved a hand at me. "Oh, sweetheart, don't worry about it. Everyone is affected differently."

  “That’s never happened to me before—I’ve always come out of it feeling fine.”

  I knew in the logical part of my brain it was impossible for Megan to be bending over me, her hair rich and lush like before she got
sick, but in my heart I wanted to believe. Maybe it wasn't a hallucination.

  "Things change," the nurse said. "Dr. Tor wants to keep you another night." She picked up the blood pressure cuff next to my bed and reached for me.

  I shook my head. "No, I'm going home," I said. I can’t stay here.

  "You're going to sign out against doctor's orders?" She pumped the cuff with one hand and put her stethoscope into her ears with the other, brows arched in disapproval.

  "Yes," I said. She listened to my heart and looked at her watch. I waited until she released the pressure on the cuff. "Where are my clothes?" I asked. She sighed but gave them to me. I dressed quickly and checked myself out. Rushing onto the elevator, I felt a swell of relief that I'd gotten out of there. I wasn’t sure why, but I knew I had to go.

  Chapter Nine

  That night I warred with my sheets. The dreams that had taunted me since Megan’s disappearance played over and over—and I always woke before I got what I needed. Before I understood what was going on!

  One minute I was burning hot, throwing my blankets to the side, and the next chilled to the bone and pulling the covers up to my neck, sometimes even dipping my head under the folds.

  "Be careful." Megan's voice spoke so close I felt her breath on my ear. My eyes popped open, and I yanked the bedding away.

  I was alone.

  The window stood ajar, the curtains shifting in a breeze. Adrenaline hammered through my veins. Just another dream.

  I crossed the room and looked out onto the back courtyard. The sun peeked over the buildings, casting a gray-pink glow on the space below. A cat bolted into the middle of the courtyard, skittering to a stop and turning back to the shadows. The feline bared its teeth and hissed at an unseen opponent.

  A figure stepped to the edge of the shadow and I squinted through the hazy light of dawn trying to see them better. Blue eyes flashed in the darkness up at me. The man I saw at the hospital and the parade.