At the condo, he walked her inside, sticking close and keeping an eye on her. Her face was composed as she surveyed her home, and he had the impression she was reacquainting herself. The modern interior consisted of sprawling dark wood floors and minimalistic white furnishings, and Graham couldn’t help being awed by the place. He’d only been here once when she’d first moved in several years ago. It was even larger than he remembered. It had an open, loft feel with an exposed ceiling two stories high and a cantilevered wood stairway that extended up to the sleeping area. The entire place had to be twice the size of the small apartment Graham shared with his mom.
“Do you want to rest?” he asked, wondering if she could make it up the stairs on her own. “Or want me to bring anything down for you?”
“I’m okay right now,” Violet said, easing onto the sofa. “I’ll have Holly and her boyfriend get my stuff later.”
“Okay.” Graham set her bag down on the floor and hesitated, unsure whether it was okay to leave. “You good, then? Need anything else? Food or anything from the kitchen?”
She shook her head, and her eyes rested on his. “I’m good. Just…”
“What?”
“Would you sit with me for a bit?”
He blinked.
“I just don’t want to be alone right now.”
“Okay. Sure.” Graham perched on the edge of the modular sofa near her, folding his hands and staring at a tall, white vase that held a bouquet of bare, twisted branches. Even with Violet’s vulnerable state, he wasn’t quite comfortable with her. Bitterness kept trying to well up inside him, and he had to fight to keep his expression from giving any hints.
After they had found out that they shared the same father, Violet had blown up in a fit of rage. She’d directed it at their dad for his indiscretion and, unfairly, at Graham. Over time, the anger turned to a resolute and uncommunicative silence. For months, Graham had tried to repair the bridge that had collapsed between them. He’d had no part in the destruction, but maybe he could persuade Violet to be his friend again.
He’d tried everything he could think of. But his calls went unanswered. His attempts to catch her at school had made her sneer and turn her back. And when he’d bought her a bouquet of tulips for her birthday, she’d tossed them on the ground and trampled them with her red stilettos.
“Stop trying to be my friend!” she’d yelled in his face.
“I only wanted to be your brother,” he’d muttered.
“You’ll never be more than a bastard of my dad’s stupidity.”
After that, he’d quit trying. But even her harsh words couldn’t make him stop wishing for what might have been. She might be able to throw away their history, but he couldn’t let it go. Still, now wasn’t the time to stir up past wrongs. He looked at her.
“Thanks for bringing me home,” Violet said.
“No problem.”
Violet put her hand on his arm. Her fingers were as cool and soft as rose petals. She looked as if she were going to say something, but then she stopped, giving him a soft smile instead.
A piercing pain sliced through Graham’s head like a stake driven into the back of his skull. He gasped and fell forward, managing to catch his head in his hands and stop himself before he slid off the sofa.
“Are you okay?” Violet asked.
Graham squeezed his eyes shut then blinked a few times. The pain had vanished, but its memory seared his mind. “I…uh…I’m okay.”
Violet tilted her head to one side.
He rubbed at the hair at the base of his scalp, wondering what that had been. There was no lingering ache, no way to tell if he’d imagined it. Except he knew he hadn’t—he’d never experienced a pain so raw. He wouldn’t forget that sensation.
When he said nothing else, Violet lay her head back against the couch, closing her eyes.
Graham watched her for a few minutes, remembering the way things used to be so long ago and wishing for those times again. If Violet could be back in his life, he might have someone he could talk to. Someone who really knew him. The sister he’d always needed.
~
The pain in Violet’s head didn’t start until sometime after Graham left. Raw and excruciating, it flamed at the back of her skull like a red-hot stake. Her body shook with the torment, and she fell off the couch trembling.
Violet gasped for air. She couldn’t see or hear anything but her own shrieking. She needed her pain pills. With a shaking hand, she searched and felt the edge of the coffee table. Her fingers made contact with something papery, and when she touched it, she fisted the object and pulled it to her chest.
The agony ebbed an inch—just enough for her to blink her eyes open and see the crumpled prescription bag in her hands. She tore at it weakly, managing to rip the bag open. The bottle of pills rolled onto the floor. Violet fell to her belly and scooped it up. She sat and wrenched it open then tapped several pills into her shaking palm. Lacking the coherence to read the tiny instructions on the label, she tossed four down and swallowed. The large pills scratched her throat, and she almost thought they’d get stuck. She fought the urge to gag and sank onto the rug when they finally went down. Her head drooped forward, and she let it fall onto the table, pressing a hand gently to the tender spot at the back of her skull.
After several minutes, the pills started to work, and Violet’s pain began to recede. When it had evaporated to a manageable trickle, she pulled herself to her feet. She went to steam away the rest with a hot shower.
Afterward, Violet wrapped a towel around her and surveyed herself in the bathroom mirror. Her entire body was raw and pink from scrubbing, but she still felt hospital residue on her. Not the smell—the room was thick with the scent of her lavender body wash—but the feel of it. It was as if something clung to her, like a microorganism too small to see.
Reflexively, she rubbed at her arms, and her towel fell. Apparently she no longer had the chest to support it. Violet stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her body had atrophied. She’d lost all her muscle definition and what little body fat she’d once had. She looked brittle, and she felt weak.
Unwilling to stare at her body any longer, she scooped up the towel and went to put on some clothes. She didn’t know if she was ready for the stairs yet, so she scavenged the utility room and found some undergarments and a clean pair of slacks hanging. There were no shirts, but she found a hoodie that she pulled on and zipped up. The items didn’t go together, but that was the least of her concerns at the moment.
Once dressed, Violet went to the kitchen to grab some food. For the first time since the coma, her appetite had returned. After seeing what her body looked like, she wondered how many meals she was from starvation. She ignored any pretense of preparing a meal and grabbed anything from the cabinet that looked appetizing—which was almost everything, even the beef jerky her dad had given as a joke gift for Christmas three years back. It didn’t even matter that it was expired. She devoured it along with an unopened jar of pickles and whatever else she found stashed in the back of the cupboard. While she ate, she resolved to order a treadmill online to help her regain her strength. Finally, she returned to the sofa to rest.
Even with her belly full, she felt no hope. What had become of this body, so frail and withered? And what was her purpose for enduring a long, steep road to full recovery? What was the point of anything? Her thoughts drifted and spiraled, and the despair from her predicament closed in around her. One name floated to the forefront.
Logan Henry. He was the cause of all her pain and torment. He had wounded her, and he would pay. She would wreak vengeance for what he did. She just had to get her strength back.
Exhaustion tugged at her, seducing her into a world of convoluted dreams and roiling darkness. Her mind heeded its call.
The rail-thin, auburn-haired girl stands bare-footed on glossy, dark wood floors. The watcher observes though he has no body. He can see her, but he can feel her too. He is inside her mind, sensing all parts of her
presence. Her feelings envelop him. Confidence wars with insecurity. Frustration and hatred bubble beneath her surface, but the lid is on that pot for now, and none of the simmering concoction spills over. Above all else is a desire—stronger than a yearning, more intense even than simple need. It is a compulsion to order her life. Like a dragon clawing its way up a cliff. The dragon is wounded, brittle, but power lies within. It—she—must regain control.
Through her consciousness, he watches two people ascend and descend, traversing a stairway with arms full of her things. Up and down they go, following her bidding. One, the girl with long blonde hair, wears a patient smile. “Friend” is the word for her. The young man with warm dark skin and rich brown eyes wears a constant, irked frown. His full lips turn down, and his shoulders fall a little more with each new request, though he doesn’t balk aloud. When the blonde catches his gaze, she sends a reprimanding look: a warning to take his duty in silence. Boyfriend duty.
The watcher isn’t sure he approves of the concept of boyfriend duty in general, but the auburn-haired girl’s thoughts lead here, in this strange state where sensations rule and everything tangible takes a backseat. To her, “boyfriend duty” is a mild scratch where a vicious grating is required.
She lets her gaze trail over the young man’s frame, spending ample time on the biceps that flex while he holds a box of her things. On the set of his strong jaw. On the twisted tufts of black hair that poke upward from his head. She wants to touch his hair, to explore what it feels like with her thin, white fingers. Too thin, too white, her mind tells her. She shoves that thought away. Those imperfections can be fixed later, but right now there are more pleasant things to consider, like what it would be like to have the tall, dark man be at her command, not because of boyfriend duty, but because he was hers.
He sets down the box and folds his arms, waiting for his girlfriend to return from the upper story of the loft.
The auburn-haired girl tips her head to the side, points to the sofa arrangement, and says something the watcher can’t hear—sounds are garbled in this semi-conscious state.
Creases of irritation deepen the man’s frown, but he follows her requests to move the couch, even as his shoulders slump with an unheard sigh. He moves it four times, and the last time he bumps her hand. The watcher feels a spark at the impact, but the young woman is unaware.
She doesn’t realize that anything has changed until a few moments later when she catches a glimpse of something odd. Wisps of something akin to thin trails of steam float off the man in bright but translucent pinks and greens and cyans. They remind the watcher of an Alaskan night sky he’s seen in pictures. The wisps radiate from all around the man’s head. The woman’s eyes are fixed on the brilliant colors as the bands intertwine and braid together. With naked curiosity, she reaches out to touch the strands. The ropes weave through the air and shoot into her open palm. They connect her to the man.
She fists the cluster in her hand, and a surge of power ripples through her. The watcher feels it like a jolt of adrenaline—fiery and electric—and he knows the possibilities are endless. The dragon has made its way to the top of the cliff and found an elixir of pure energy.
When she looks back at the man, something about him has changed. His brows have gone slack, and his mouth has pulled out of the irritated twist, reforming to a pleasant expression. All traces of annoyance have vanished, and he’s now all admiring gazes and open, willing hands. His gestures seem to ask what else he can do for her.
The watcher wonders what prompted the change, and then he realizes it’s this woman. She tightens her fist, watching the strings go taut, and the tall, dark man responds to her new instructions. He moves a chair to a new spot. Then the blonde girlfriend descends the stairwell.
The dark man ignores his girlfriend and looks at the woman holding the strands as though seeking reassurance. She gestures to a table, and the man obeys, dragging it into place to complete the new furniture arrangement.
The blonde’s eyes narrow as she approaches, watching the exchange between her boyfriend and her friend. Finished with his task, the man waits expectantly. All his enamored looks are directed at the new object of his attention, the auburn-haired woman. So she has him move a few more items.
Satisfied in more ways than one, this woman—the enchanter, as the watcher now thinks of her—says something to her friends that elicits a parting wave. Upon exiting the condo, the blonde glances over her shoulder but realizes her boyfriend isn’t following. She pauses and folds her arms impatiently, but he still doesn’t respond. His attention is on the enchanter who holds his strings.
Only then does the enchanter realize the depth of her newfound control. The watcher feels her awe as she opens her palm and wiggles her fingers, toying with the strands. The colored lines cling as if bonded to her.
The blonde stares at her friend like she’s watching a crazy person. The watcher realizes that only the enchanter can see the strands.
He feels the enchanter’s fascination with this thing, like a new toy. She flicks her hand in a casual wave, and the man gives a quick nod, turns, and follows his girlfriend out.
The colored strands writhe and swirl around each other as they stretch. As they pull, the enchanter feels the man’s energy grow farther and farther away—the strands have become a new sense, fingers that can stroke and touch and feel. Even after the door closes behind them and they drive away, she feels the presence of the young man who was her friend’s boyfriend. Was, because he is that no longer. Now he’s connected to her.
The enchanter likes this very much.
Graham awoke with a start, mentally trying to slough off the crusted film left from his dream. He’d been dreaming about Violet, and that sensation made his body writhe as if covered in earthworms. An involuntary shiver made him tremble, and he rubbed his bare shoulders.
It wasn’t just dreaming of her. It was the weird intimacy of it—like he’d been in her head, a part of her somehow. And what did it mean—this dream of her playing a man like a puppet? Was it merely Graham’s subconscious portraying his anxieties about her?
He tried to force the dream from his mind, but even as he scrubbed himself down under the hot spray in the shower, it wouldn’t leave him. Memories from his past trailed afterward, like puppies lapping at his ankles, reminding him of happy times when he and Violet had been friends. A familiar ache twisted his gut, forcing him to relive feelings from high school. That, he did not want to think about—it was even worse than the dream. She was his sister, even if he hadn’t known she was back then.
After his shower, Graham dressed and ate a quick breakfast. He needed a plan for the day—he had to find a job soon, and dwelling on some crazy nightmare wouldn’t help. Finally, he grabbed one of his many notebooks and a pen, deciding that the best way to rid himself of the mental clutter was to vomit it onto a page. He wrote everything he remembered about the dream, from beginning to end. He refused to let his hand to scribble frantically the way it urged to, but instead he controlled the pen with slow, precise strokes.
Penmanship had always been important to him, and the gentle, sloping motions soothed him bit by bit. When he’d finally captured the dream, down to the colored tendrils sweeping from Violet’s palm, he closed the book.
One deep, calming breath and Graham could put it all aside. For now.
He would begin his day and hope he could stop thinking about Violet.
~
Jade wore calm like an ill-fitting costume when she went into work on Saturday morning. She shoved down everything she could as if in denial about what had happened with Logan two days ago.
Her emotional ability was no longer unidirectional—the incident in Pueblo two months ago proved that. She’d invaded the emotions of the two killers, a factor that had aided the escape of her friends. But it had also made one of the men kill the other. She couldn’t ignore that this violent act was connected to her.
The frowning face of March, her new boss, met her as she a
pproached the sales desk. The woman’s graying blonde hair swung as she looked up.
“You’re late,” March said.
“It’s just five minutes.”
March’s thin lips morphed into a scowl. “I don’t know how my dad ran things, but punctuality matters to me.”
“I’m sorry,” Jade said.
“And let’s dial back the chattiness, shall we? Last week your boyfriend was in here almost every day. If you’re on the clock, you should be working, not talking to friends.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Now I have to send back these boxes of books that just arrived this morning.” March left for the stockroom.
Jade blew out a breath, forcing the anxiety she felt out with it. Control. She needed control. How did Logan do this so easily? She closed her eyes for a moment and focused on an imaginary beach scene. The waves came in and went out, and Jade attached herself to that image.
“You sleeping on the job?”
When her eyes popped open, Logan stood before the desk, watching her. Despite the joke, his expression was somber.
She chuckled, but her lighthearted attempt was as forced as his. “I was just trying to do a mental reset.”
“Did it work?”
“Maybe. A little.”
“Hi, by the way.” He leaned forward, and his lips met hers for a brief moment.
“Hi.” She smiled, though his presence made her nervous that March would come out and see them talking. “Whatcha doing here?”
“I just wanted to check on you and see if you were okay. I didn’t hear from you last night….”
“I meant to call, but Chloe kept me busy until late.”
“What is she working on? A summer class project?”
“No. It’s this design contest for a charity event. The winner gets a scholarship to study fashion design at this school in San Francisco.”
Enchanter: The Flawed Series Book Four Page 3