by Ali M. Cross
It was rash, it was daring,
My heart, my love not sparing.
I am the victor,
That much I know.
The Moon, the Sun—
I name them my own.
Nix watched her while he sang. Saw her sister, then her brother, put their hands on her back. He wondered what she thought, if she took offense at his words, at the suggestion that she was a thing he could claim. But then she dropped her hands from her face where they’d fisted at her mouth, and he saw the shine in her eyes and the smile on her lips. He knew that he, too, had been claimed.
The last note of Nix’s song still hung in the air when Fiona’s phone buzzed in her pocket. Out of habit she pulled it out and glanced at it, seeing a New York number she didn’t recognize. She clasped the phone in her lap, hesitant to decline the call but not willing to leave this perfect moment. What if it was the Met calling for her? Or her agent? Nix’s song was over, after all. It wouldn’t hurt if she took the call, would it? She stood, unwilling to acknowledge the faces that swiveled to track her as she walked out of the club.
“Hello?” she asked, breathless for fear she’d missed the call. She pressed the phone to her ear, before she stepped outside into the silent mountain night.
“Fiona MacDonald?” said a man.
“Yes?” She could hear clapping and whistles of appreciation from inside and she moved farther away.
“Ms. MacDonald, this is Detective Maynard from the New York Police Department. We met at the hospital and have spoken on the phone since then.”
“Oh. Yes, I remember. How are you?” She cringed. It wasn’t a social call, she knew that. She just didn’t know what to say or why the man was calling. And she’d missed being there for Nix once he got off the stage for this. She didn’t care about the attack. She didn’t care about any of it anymore.
“I’m fine, Ms. MacDonald. Just fine. I’m calling to let you know we’ve apprehended the man responsible for the attack on your life. Thought you’d want to know.”
Fiona felt as if she’d just been punched in the gut.
“Ms. MacDonald?”
Her throat constricted and she raised her free hand to it. The darkness in the parking lot seemed to push toward her, dimming the lights of the club.
“Who?” she croaked.
“His name is Nathan Hall. Did you know him?”
Nate. His name is Nate. She remembered now. Remembered everything.
“Jeanine’s—” just saying her understudy’s name made bile rise in her throat and she suddenly fought for breath.
“Terrible business, that,” the detective said.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
“I hope you’re well, Ms. MacDonald. Goodnight, then.” The detective hung up.
Fiona stood, breathless, her heart thudding in her ears blocking out all other sound, the phone forgotten in her hand.
Nix fought his way through the room, but friends wanted to greet him, talk to him, hear all about his life as a rock star, and it was several minutes before he managed to make it out the door.
He found her standing at the edge of the parking lot, shivering in the cold night air, her phone at her feet.
“Fiona?” he asked from a few feet behind her. When she didn’t answer, didn’t even seem to be aware of him, he moved carefully forward. He had no idea what was going on. Did she hate him for singing to her? For putting her on the spot like that? When he saw her walk out, he’d mentally kicked himself. He should have known it was too soon. Too fast. An idiot would have known that. He had to make this right, but he didn’t know how.
He wanted to touch her, to draw her into his arms, to kiss her so she remembered how perfect it felt between them. Unless she didn’t feel the same. That was a possibility he wasn’t willing to face just now. It was much easier to think he’d gone too fast, than that she didn’t have feelings for him at all.
He circled her, his arms outstretched, as if approaching a wild animal. “Fiona, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have just told the whole world I was in love with you.” He let the words hang there, half hoping she’d realize he meant it, that this was real, this was big, and half hating himself all the more for adding even more burden to the evening. He shook his head when she didn’t respond. “Come on, Fiona. Talk to me.”
He saw her face then, saw her staring into the darkness, a look of terror on her face, her eyes unseeing. “Fiona?” She still didn’t seem to be aware of his existence. He went to her then, touched her hands, her arms, patted her cheeks, but she didn’t move, barely seemed to be breathing. He picked up her phone, saw a New York number had called, but that didn’t help him figure out what was going on. He ran back to the club, dashed inside and loudly called for Gavin and Lindsay to come. Every face turned his direction, but he didn’t care. He needed help. Now. “Call 911!”
Someone gasped and everyone started talking, but he didn’t stay to see if Lindsay and Gavin followed or if anyone made the call. He just turned and ran back to Fiona. She was still standing there. Unmoved. Unchanged.
“What’s going on?” Lindsay asked when she joined them in the lot.
“I don’t know. She’s . . . it’s like she’s trapped inside her head, but whatever’s going on in there has her completely terrified. I can’t snap her out of it!” Nix backed away from her and shoved his hands into his hair.
“What happened?” Lindsay asked, putting a tentative hand on her sister’s arm. “Fi? Fiona.”
“I have no idea!” Nix shouted. Gavin stepped up to him, reaching out with hands much like Nix had done to Fiona a few minutes before.
“Calm down, Nix,” he soothed. “It’s okay.”
“Look at your sister, man!” Nix cried. “She’s having a mental breakdown or something because I sang her a song!”
Gavin looked over his shoulder at Fiona, then turned his steady gaze on Nix. “You know that’s not true. This isn’t you. More likely it has something to do with that devil who attacked her.” He looked around as if only now considering that someone here might have tried to hurt her.
“She got a call from New York,” Nix said numbly, holding out the phone to Gavin.
“That must’ve been why she left the club. I bet that’ll—” Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a car racing onto the dirt parking lot, sending dust and gravel flying everywhere. The car had barely come to a stop when a short, round woman wearing hospital scrubs jumped out. She left the door open, the warning bell of her keys in the ignition pinging in the night air.
“I’m Parker Daniels from the River Mile clinic. The ambulance’s out on another call, so you’ve just got me. What’s the emergency?” she said in a no-nonsense tone as she hustled toward Lindsay and Fiona. Nix rushed forward to join them. He knew Parker, she was a regular at the club and a member of the church choir.
“She’s having some sort of attack. She just blanked out on us and she won’t answer us or move or anything.” Lindsay held on to Fiona’s arm while Parker pulled a pen light from her pocket and began shining it in Fiona’s eyes.
“She got a phone call just before,” Nix offered. “She was out here alone.”
“Who was it? What did they say to her?”
“I don’t know,” Nix admitted. The woman shot him a withering glare.
“Then call them. We need to know what triggered this.”
He took a step back and dialed the number, held the phone to his ear. Detective Maynard answered the phone. “This is Nix Elliott. Did you just speak to Fiona MacDonald?”
“Yup, told her we arrested her attacker.”
“You did? That’s fantastic! Who was it?”
“Thanks to your tip, we were able to confirm Nathan Hall did it to secure his girlfriend the leading role.”
“And Jeanine? Did she put him up to it?” Parker and Lindsay started walking Fiona toward Parker’s car, while Gavin ran ahead and took the drivers’ seat. Nix hurried to follow, but he w
anted to hear the detective’s answer.
“Claims she had no idea and we’ve no proof against her. But the guy’s going down for attempted murder. Gotta go.” Nix didn’t wait to hear the line go dead, just threw himself into the passenger seat of Parker’s car before Gavin turned it around and sped toward the clinic.
Lindsay asked who’d been on the phone, but Nix didn’t want to say anything in front of Fiona, in case it only drove her further inside her own mind. So he shook his head and focused his attention on the road ahead.
HER THROAT WAS ON FIRE. SHE COULDN’T BREATHE. Someone pressed down on her chest. Her head hurt. It was happening again…
Fiona stepped from the stage entrance and into the muggy August night. She breathed in deeply through her nose, desperate for some fresh air after twelve hours of rehearsal at the Metropolitan Opera. She loved everything about New York, the energy, the busyness, the art and culture—everything except the air which often felt thick and dirty. With her performance in the title role of Lakmé only a few weeks away, the days were longer and longer, and she was exhausted. She couldn’t wait to get home, kick out of her ridiculously high-heeled boots and strip out of her “costume.”
Years ago, while attending the Jacobs School of Music, her voice coach had told her that if she wanted to be a principal performer, she needed to act the part. All the time. That meant dressing and behaving like a diva even during twelve-hour-long rehearsals. Fiona wasn’t as snotty as many of the women at the Met, but she did do her best to look and act like a star. At least at home she could wear her oversized flannel PJs and the goofy moose slippers Lindsay had sent her for Christmas.
After another deep breath she adjusted her stylish messenger bag across her chest and moved down the steps and onto Lincoln Plaza. Once on the street she’d hail a cab, and PJs and warm tea would be hers in less than an hour.
While she walked, she waited impatiently for her phone to turn on and collect her messages.
It’s a girl! Jake texted.
And, A girl! From Gavin.
Only Lindsay sent a picture. The plaza was quiet and Fiona’s steps were slow as she watched the little dots that indicated her phone was still loading the picture. She stopped and grinned like a fool at the image of the gangly little foal with her mama gently nuzzling her. A bay, she thought, noting the black legs and mane. As she gazed at the little foal, she admitted maybe she missed more than the clean Colorado air.
A scuffing sound had her turning around. She’d stayed late with Dale, the director, the others having left half an hour earlier. Still, she didn’t expect Dale to head out right away. She actually wondered if he ever went home. But it wasn’t Dale moving toward her, dressed in black, his arm raised as if to strike. She took a step back, her phone forgotten, her heartbeat skittering.
Her mind fumbled through the appropriate responses to a mugging. Her brothers had drilled them into her for days, weeks, before she left home for college. She shoved her bag and phone forward. “Here!” she practically screamed.
But the man ignored her outstretched offering and barreled into her, knocking her down. Her head cracked against the cement and her vision went momentarily black. She tried to turn away, the cement scratching her cheek and the smell of tar and car exhaust striking her with perfect clarity. Her phone skidded out of her hand as the man straddled her, grabbed her head and slammed it once against the ground. The blow cut through the fog, the inertia, and she began to fight back.
She thrashed, kicking and punching at the man as he loomed over her, but she was no match for him. She had never hit anyone in her life—unless you counted wrestling matches with Jake when she was younger and in which she was always the loser. Her blows felt just as useless now.
She opened her mouth to scream for help, but his hands found her throat, squeezing hard, cutting off any sound she might make. Her mind reeled as tears sprang to her eyes. She didn’t have much in her wallet, but she didn’t care if he took it all if it meant he’d stop. Why was he doing this? What did he want?
His thumbs pressed against her larynx and panic flooded her mind. She struck at her attacker. Yanked back the hood of his jacket, grabbed at his hair, clawed at his face. She recognized him. She knew him, didn’t she? Nate. Jeanine’s boyfriend. He was a tenor in the chorus. Jeanine was her understudy. Jeanine was her friend.
Her vision blurred then burst with a flash of light and pain that left blackness in its wake. The pressure on her throat increased—he meant to squeeze her head right off her neck. He jerked her, smashing her head against the pavers again, and this time she went numb. Her eyes remained open. The man above her, stealing her life away, nothing but a shadow, a curse of blackness, not even a man. She was turning to ash, starting at her fingertips and racing inward, every part of her dying away, blowing apart in the wind.
Nix hadn’t left her side since they brought her into the small River Mile clinic four hours ago. She’d been sedated, but when she began to choke and her oxygen saturation dropped below sixty, they stuck a tube down her throat and hooked her up to an oxygen tank. Her chest rose and fell evenly now, but none of it made him happy. He hated seeing her like this. Hated knowing she was fighting her demons all alone. The doc gave her medication he said would calm her mind, which would allow her to process the trauma at a pace more agreeable to her psyche.
Nix longed to punch something. Scratch that. He wanted to punch the criminal who did this to her. With Lindsay out cold in the chair beside him, and Gavin off looking for some coffee, Nix had nothing else to do but fall to his knees against Fiona’s bed. He begged and pleaded and cried. Even when Gavin returned with a cup of coffee for him, he didn’t move. He clung to Fiona’s still hand with both of his own, and prayed.
Fiona arched her back, thrashed and kicked, anything to push her attacker away. She beat her fists against his head. Screamed despite the hands that crushed around her throat. She stared up into the face of her attacker, and she knew him. It was Nate, Jeanine’s boyfriend.
No.
No. It was Nix.
He gazed down at her, his eyes full of shining concern, his words soft and soothing as he called to her, begged her to fight, to be strong, to win.
But it was Nate who held her throat in his hands. Nate who was stealing her whole life away.
She squeezed her eyes tight, dug her nails into her palms and threw everything she had against her attacker. He wouldn’t beat her. He wouldn’t take her life away, not again.
The tube had been removed an hour ago, and her breathing had been even and normal since. The brainwave monitor showed nothing but normal, peaceful dreaming. Nix knew he’d never understand the horror of the nightmares she’d endured, or the strength it had taken for her to overcome them—but he was certain she had. Even though he hadn’t seen what she’d seen, he’d sat with her, fought with her, and prayed with all his might that she’d have the strength to come back to him.
“NIX.” HE WAS ASLEEP IN HIS CHAIR, HIS HEAD RESTING on the bed right by her own. She did the natural thing, the thing she’d been wanting to do since she met him, that is after he’d scared her half to death. She smoothed her fingers into his hair. A rush of warmth, of belonging, moved through her, making her gasp and bringing tears to her eyes. But they were the good kind of tears. The ones that cleansed and healed.
His hair felt as soft as she imagined it would, its long strands parting before her fingers with ease. He sighed beneath her touch and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she’d spend every day of her life touching him, if he’d let her. His face was turned toward her and she studied his long lashes, his fine, straight nose, the stubble that proved she’d been out for a while. His soft, delicious lips were parted and she wished she was within easy reach of kissing him.
Beyond her open door she saw Gavin, Jack and Lindsay talking to a doctor. She sighed. Everyone she loved was here. For her.
“I love you,” she whispered to Nix. His eyes popped open and she laughed. “Were you awake this who
le time?”
He grinned. “Maybe.” He took her hand from his hair and kissed her palm, sending shivers all the way down to her toes. The twinkle in his eyes faded and was replaced by concern as he angled his body closer. He brushed his knuckles against her cheek, passing them through the trail of tears there. “Are you—?”
“I am.” She leaned her cheek against his hand and stared into his eyes. They were dark now, almost black, and she longed to see that amber light in them again. It seemed like a secret they shared and she wanted to know if she really could light him from within like he’d said. She knew she’d never shone brighter than this moment. Even on the stage. Not anywhere.
“You saved me.”
“What?” His look of surprise was followed by a flash that looked like guilt. She wondered if he’d been thinking he should have done something more for her, but she had a general idea of what had happened, and knew he would have done everything possible to see to her care.
“Well, technically I saved myself.” She laughed softly, not yet willing to alert her siblings to her wakefulness. She wanted just a few more minutes alone with Nix. “But you were the one who gave me the courage.”
He was smiling with her now, his eyes gleaming, brightening even as she watched. “And how’d I do that?”
She sighed, not wanting to get into the ugly details—if she could, she’d never think of them again. “I was stuck in a loop and I couldn’t stop him.” She paused, hoping that would be enough, and when he didn’t question she quickly went on. “Then you came, soothing the pain, easing the pressure. You told me you were here for me. That you . . . that you loved me. And that I was strong enough to fight back. Strong enough to win.”
Nix smiled and she mirrored him, so full of happiness at that moment that she could almost forget what she’d just been through. She struggled to sit, pulling at wires and tubes. Nix tried to help, both of them so tangled up that she could barely get closer at all. They were breathless and laughing by the time their lips met.