by Amber Benson
She was tired, and she wanted someone else to take the reins.
She wanted Lyse.
We trust only our own flesh and blood to look after the last Dream Keeper, Eleanora thought, as the wind danced through the eucalyptus leaves, ruffling her hair.
When so many pretend there is no threat, our children and children’s children are left to fight the battle for us all.
She and Marie-Faith had both called on the efforts of the ones they loved best.
“Keep them safe,” she said out loud, the trees her only witness. “If I could sacrifice myself twice for them and for Lizbeth, you know I would.”
Eleanora didn’t hear the man approach. To her credit, though, he was silent as death as he wound his way through the underbrush. He moved with the calculated grace of someone who planned everything, leaving nothing to chance, and so he was only a few feet away from her, but outside the circle of protection, when some sixth sense told her she was not alone.
Before she could turn around, the voice was in her head. It was tarnished now by time and age, but the sound of it, the familiar New England cadence, transported her back more than forty years into the past . . .
“. . . Eleanora?”
She would not turn around. There were enough people in the train station; she could make a run for it and lose herself in the crowd if she needed to.
“Eleanora, please,” Mitchell called out to her, and the pleading quality of his voice broke her resolve.
The cacophonous stampede of travelers moving through South Station gave her a false sense of safety, drowning out her reservations, and she stopped in the middle of the crowded room and waited for him to catch up.
“Eleanora,” he said as he closed the distance between them, gently grasping her upper arm and turning her to face him.
He was thinner than she remembered, his face drawn with worry.
“Can we talk? Please . . . ?”
He was already guiding her away from the masses, pulling her toward a quiet corner.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
“They wouldn’t let me into the hospital to see you, so I’ve been watching your grandmother’s place. I was hoping you’d come by.”
Even though he’s been outside that house for days, Eleanora realized, he has no idea Mimi is laid out on the bed, waiting for someone to discover her body.
It was a gruesome thought.
“—I tried to stop them.” Mitchell was still talking. “You have to believe me. I wouldn’t have let them hurt you—”
He was holding on to her arm, grasping at her skin with frantic fingers—but he dropped his hand, flexing his fingers nervously when he realized it was making her uncomfortable. She set her traveling case on the shiny tile floor—its contents the last remnants of her former life—and reached for her arm, rubbing the place he’d just touched. The skin felt hot beneath her fingertips and she shuddered, terrified that he would guess what she was carrying inside her belly just by touching her.
“I have no ill will toward you, Mitchell,” she heard herself saying in a calm voice. “I believe you didn’t want to hurt me.”
He was nodding in agreement.
“Yes, truly. I would never hurt you.”
He reached for her hand, and she had to stop herself from yanking it away. She squirmed inside as he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing the delicate skin of her knuckles.
“I have to go,” she said; the feverish way he was looking at her, holding on to her, made her want to bolt.
She didn’t know how she’d ever thought he was attractive. There was something wild and desperate in his eyes, and it repulsed her.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said, using his grip on her hand to pull her even closer to him. “When we made love—”
She didn’t want to hear it, hated that he’d ever touched her. Just the thought made her nauseated.
“Don’t. Not here, please.”
He stopped, swallowing back a torrent of words.
“You belong to me now, Eleanora,” he said. “You lay down with me, and, in God’s eyes, I believe we’re joined forever.”
She wanted to scream, to claw at his eyes and drive him away. She knew the road he envisioned for her, had lived there the whole of her life, been subjugated to another’s will and religion and cruelty—and she was determined that this son of a bitch would not do the same thing to her.
“I don’t give a damn what you want,” she said, the rage she felt driving her words. “You don’t own me, no matter how many times you lie with me.”
He was aghast, shocked by her tone of voice and choice of words.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “I told you that I love you. What else do you want?”
For a moment, she was rendered mute by the question—but suddenly the answer was on her lips, fighting with a raw viciousness to rip its way out of her.
“I want to be left alone,” she said. “I want you small-minded, narrow-thinking people to leave me be. I don’t belong to you, just like I didn’t belong to my grandmother. I want the freedom to do what I like, the way I like, and I don’t want to ever be judged again. Not by you. Not by anyone.”
The words came out in a rush, uncensored, and, even if she’d had a thousand years to fashion them, she would not have changed a single one. The truth spoke louder than anything she could ever contrive.
Mitchell took his hat off, running the brim through his fingers—something she remembered him doing the very first time she met him.
“I don’t want to do any of that to you, Eleanora,” he said, looking down at his hands. “I just want to marry you.”
To her shock, he dug into the pocket of his suit coat and produced a small white plastic ring box. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he sank onto one knee and smiled up at her. She thought he resembled a hungry wolf, all sharp teeth and desperate eyes.
“Eleanora Eames,” he said, his shaking fingers flipping open the top of the ring box, “will you do me the honor of taking my hand in marriage?”
Eleanora looked around the waiting area and realized they were attracting attention. Two middle-aged women who were seated together on one of the nearby benches were watching them like hawks. An older couple, cheap suitcases at their feet, whispered together, throwing the occasional glance in their direction.
She decided she hated Mitchell even more for turning this into a public spectacle.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, not even looking at the ring. “I won’t do this with you. Not here.”
She grabbed his arm, trying to lift him to his feet, but he was so much heavier than her and wouldn’t budge.
“Well, where then?” he asked, misinterpreting her words.
“Not where. Not when,” Eleanora said, finally losing her temper. “I am not going to do this with you anywhere!”
She was getting too loud. Rage that someone like Mitchell could just waltz into her new life and try to destroy it before it’d even begun filled every molecule of her being.
“Please, Eleanora, be reasonable—” he was saying, but she ignored him.
“You’re the unreasonable one! Watching my house, then waylaying me at the train station—”
They were getting more looks now, strangers’ eyes riveted to the drama playing out in front of them.
“I don’t understand,” Mitchell said, brow furrowing. “What do you want me to do?”
She rolled her eyes heavenward, hoping for some divine intervention, though she knew none would be forthcoming.
“I want you to go away,” she cried in frustration. “I want you to go away and leave me alone. Forever.”
He closed the ring box with a snap, eyes on something just over her right shoulder. She turned and saw a policeman heading their way—someone must’ve alerted him when they’d st
arted yelling. Mitchell’s eyes flashed like a cornered animal’s, and he scrambled to his feet.
“This isn’t the last you’ll see of me,” he growled, spittle flying from his lips.
And then he was gone.
She was trembling when the policeman arrived at her side, his bulky presence the most reassuring thing she’d seen in days.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” he asked, concern weighing down his doughy features.
She nodded and picked up her traveling case.
“Yes, sir,” she said, forcing a smile onto her lips. “Just a boy from my hometown who has trouble with the word no.”
The policeman nodded.
“Well, if there’s any further trouble, just come look for me,” he said, patting her arm.
She watched him go, feeling unsettled and very much alone as she looked around the waiting area and . . .
. . . she was in the middle of the clearing again, shivering. She wondered how long she’d been gone.
Long enough for him to sneak up on me, she realized. He was so close she could almost taste him.
“I hear you’re dying,” he said, his words a whisper inside the coil of her ear—even though he could not cross the magical barrier at the tree line.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and an anger she hadn’t felt in years circulated through her veins like poison.
She turned her head to find he was not just close to her; he was beside her.
“How are you inside . . . No, you, you can’t be—” she stuttered, but he only smiled.
“Your magic only works on someone who wishes you ill, and I love you,” he said. His right hand clutched a walking stick as he leaned toward her, its silvery tip forged into the shape of a lion’s head. “I’ve always loved you, Eleanora.”
His voice was not the only thing that was the same about him. His eyes still glinted at her with the same feral intensity—only this time they were not filled with desperate hunger but the cold blue flame of power.
She took a few steps back, moving herself out of his orbit.
Why, after over forty years, is he here? she wondered. She had neither seen nor heard from him in all these intervening years—what did he hope to accomplish by confronting her now?
“What do you want?” she asked. “I don’t believe for a second you just happened upon me out here.”
Too many cigarettes had turned his laugh into a rasp.
“Of course not,” he said, laughter turning into a hacking cough. “I’m here, really . . . at the behest of someone else.”
She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
“Aren’t you at all curious who I’ve brought to see you?” he asked, goading her.
She didn’t care one iota who or what he’d brought with him—and she said as much.
“I don’t give a pig’s fart what you’re doing here, Mitchell,” she said, and turned to go—but he caught her arm, refusing to let her leave.
He was strong for an old man, and this surprised Eleanora. But she had a few tricks up her sleeve, too, and wasn’t afraid to use them.
“Let me go,” she said, calmly.
He grinned at her, squeezing the delicate flesh of her upper arm in almost an exact repetition of what he’d done at the train station all those years before.
“Let me go,” she said, glaring at him. “If you don’t let me go—”
“You’ll do what?” he purred into her ear. “Call the police?”
He cackled, enjoying his little joke—but she’d had enough.
“I warned you,” she said, and smashed the heel of her shoe into his foot, digging into his suede loafer.
He yowled, releasing his hold on her just long enough for her to get away, and she didn’t waste the opportunity. She took off, an old woman pursued by a past that had become real once more.
She hadn’t physically exerted herself like this in months, and at first it was exhilarating, but after a few minutes of scrambling through the underbrush, she was exhausted. She hadn’t slept well, hadn’t taken care of herself . . . hadn’t relaxed once since Lyse’s arrival, and now she was paying for it.
She gulped air as she ran, a stitch lacing through her right side, making it hard to keep going. She slowed down to a fast walk, listening for sounds that told her she was being pursued, but all she could hear was the rush of her own breath and the drone of an airplane passing overhead.
Her heart was beating too quickly. She could feel it in her chest, her throat, and at the pulse points on both wrists.
Slow down, she thought. Take a breath. It’s just an old man with obsessive love in his heart. He can’t hurt you. Not if you don’t let him.
She reduced her speed, taking her time as she navigated through the trees until one of the hiking trails appeared ahead of her. There was no one on the path, no hikers or joggers to blend into, but she didn’t care. She moved more quickly, sensing she wasn’t far from one of the main roads that crisscrossed the park.
She hit the hiking trail and started jogging, a sense of urgency driving her forward. The path took her over a small hill and then, as it leveled out, she saw the exit to the park just a straight shot ahead of her. Breathing hard, she almost laughed with joy as she reached the end of the trail and saw a suburban street full of parked cars.
Thank God, she thought as she stepped onto the asphalt, wiping away the sweat from her face with the back of her hand.
She didn’t think she could make it to her house. Her heartbeat was erratic, and she was incapable of drawing a full breath. She leaned forward, resting her hands on her thighs, trying not to pass out. Little black dots swam in front of her eyes, and nausea took hold of her belly. She’d overdone it. She’d passed the point of no return, and her body was telling her that this was it.
Hessika’s gift had been depleted.
Not yet, she pleaded. It’s not time yet.
She wrestled with inertia, forcing her body to drag itself into a standing position—to take one step after another toward the row of parked cars. If she could find someone inside one of them, get the person to call an ambulance, then maybe everything would be all right.
Just ahead of her, a man opened the driver’s-side door of his Lincoln Town Car and climbed out. He was tall and well dressed and had a silver buzz cut. Happily, she saw that he was moving in her direction, arms outstretched as he ran toward her—which didn’t make any sense until she realized he was trying to catch her before she collapsed onto the asphalt road.
“Eleanora,” the man said, managing to reach her before she hit the ground.
She raised her eyes to his face and tried to lift her hand, to touch the man’s cheek in gratitude, but her body would not do what she wanted.
She stared at him. He looked so familiar, as though he were someone she’d known all her life—but his name would not come to her.
Who are you? she said, the words forming in her brain but never making it past her lips. How do I know you?
The man eased her to the ground, cradling Eleanora’s head to his chest, as the life began to ebb from her body. He lovingly stroked her hair, his long fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, coming back wet from the tears trickling down the sides of her face.
Tears she could not feel or control.
Who are you? she wondered, searching his face for the answer—pale green eyes, pink lips, a webbing of lines around his mouth.
He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. It was a simple gesture, sweet and heartbreakingly sad, a hello and a good-bye. He looked up, scanning the area for help, she assumed—but then she noticed the gloves he was wearing, and with a dawning sense of horror, she understood what was about to happen.
No, she thought as he placed his gloved hand over her nose and mouth. No, not like this.
She was alread
y dying—would be dead soon, even, without his help. But he kept his hand in place and stared into her eyes, watching her struggle ever so slightly to draw breath.
“Godspeed, Mother,” he said.
Of course, she thought.
She wanted to say something, anything, to this man—this murderer—whom she’d borne and given away. She wanted to tell him she’d always watched over him, always kept him close—even if he had not known it—until he’d disappeared without a trace as a teenager, and even then she’d looked for him . . . but she could not speak, could not tell him any of this.
Instead, she obliged his last wish.
Her heart pulsed one final time, then forever ceased its beat.
Lyse
The concrete and glass waiting room of the hospital; the ebb and flow of people going in and out its front doors. All went unobserved because Lyse had no awareness of her surroundings: not the sharp edge of the metal bench cutting into the backs of her thighs, or the deep gouge she’d made in the nail bed of her right thumb, or the bloody sting where she’d bitten the skin of her bottom lip ragged.
She didn’t notice any of this, felt none of the physical wounds because the emotional ones were so great. They took up too much space, were all-consuming, and left no room for anything else.
No, that wasn’t quite true. There was the numbness . . . the only thing that made it possible to keep breathing. It sat on her chest like a heavy blanket, smothering the fiery cascade of emotions—anger, grief, and anguish—beating at her door. The numbness rooted her in place and would not allow her to answer their pounding calls to be let in.
When she looked back over this time in her life, it would be hard to process it as anything other than a dream. If she hadn’t been hit with the reality of a memorial and an empty house, she would’ve chalked the whole experience up to a terrible nightmare and left it at that. There was a surreal quality to it, as though it’d occurred underwater, the fabric of the memory a rippling, blue blur.
“Lyse?”
She turned her head toward the sound. She knew she was being spoken to, but she couldn’t think what the words might mean.