by A. C. Dillon
We're watching Cirque du Soleil in the middle of Lake Ontario. For some reason, I feel no sense of concern or confusion. I am only saddened by the choice of venue. My father adores the circus, but has never learned to swim.
An aerial silk performer is suddenly the sole focus of our attention: twisting, climbing and soaring on a pale purple ribbon, she is graceful and daring. Her drops leave me pressing my palm to my chest, terrified she's going to plummet to the hard metal beneath my feet. But she never does. She faces death down and soars away, almost mocking the notion of mortality.
Winding slowly to the ground, a transformation: the ribbon twists and unfurls, first a skirt, morphing into a dress. Her hair is pulled loose from a knot at the nape of her neck and suddenly, I am terrified and angry.
Louise.
With a grin, she waves her hand and we are alone now, rocking gently on the night tide. I edge backwards, keeping my distance.
"I don't want to talk to you."
"I'm afraid you don't have a choice. Not if you want to control it. Not if you want to protect yourself." She is clearly annoyed with me, although I don’t think I give a damn.
"I don't want it at all!" I snap, turning away. "Just go back to wherever and leave me alone!"
"That's not what you said to Richard—"
"That was one time. Once. No more."
A chill grazes my shoulder and I realize she is beside me, her fingers embedded in my flesh. I pull back, shuddering.
"I said the same thing. 'It's just my grandmama. It's because I was so close to her.' And then, during the Great War, when the first soldier asked me to tell his mother he was sorry for a wrong he'd done her, I assumed he must have told me before dying. And then another solider asked, and another, and another... One warned me to leave the ship, to miss the return voyage. He saved me..."
With a frustrated glare, she shoves me away, surprising in her strength. I rub my arm, mystified at how a spirit without mass can inflict pain.
"Autumn, it's never just once. They will not go away. Not until the gift passes to the next. Your choices are to run and risk weakness, risk losing control, or to create the terms of your relationship with the other side. Refuse, and there are those who will take advantage. Those who will lash out...”
I see it then: the blood. It seeps from her chest, trickling down the front of her dress. Louise doesn't bother to try and stop it, doesn't apply pressure. Unconsciously, I react. My palm stretches to the crimson swell, tries to stop fate. Louise laughs bitterly.
"Even now... This is why they will come to you. You must be ready. You must know how to control them. Or one day, they'll control you."
Autumn awoke with a gasp, scrutinizing her palms for any trace of blood. Beside her, Andrew immediately stirred, his hand shooting out to her back. Grounding. That's what he always called it. Connecting her to him, to something solid.
More solid than a ghost.
"Nightmare?"
"Mmhmm." She forced herself to take deeper, slower breaths, focusing on the gentle circle of his hand against her lower back.
"Lie down," he coached her. "Relax. You're safe."
She was so tired of this: the endless surges of adrenaline; the terror; the jarring shift from dreamscape to the harsh light of day. I was almost past this, damn it! She'd been so close to a normal sleep schedule before...
Before the door opened.
Nestling into his embrace, Autumn closed her eyes. "Aren't you tired of talking me through this crap?"
"No. I'm tired of being helpless to stop it. This isn't your fault."
No, it wasn't. That she could agree on. Her leg sprawled over his, bending and tangling around the sturdy limb. The fine hair of his calf tickled her ankle.
"It was her again."
A squeeze. "I'd figured as much. Did you want to talk about it?"
"No, but I want to talk to my mom. Something she said... I think maybe she was at war."
"War? Women weren't soldiers in her time."
"A nurse," Autumn clarified. "I think maybe she was a nurse. I just don't understand how I didn't know about her. My dad's grandfather was a veteran. We've talked about his experiences at the Somme."
"Maybe she didn't talk about it?" Andrew suggested. "If she was... a conduit? Was that the term? If she was seeing the dead, maybe she put it behind her. Maybe she tried to avoid talking about it."
"Maybe..."
"Remind you of anyone you know?" he gently goaded.
Moving over him, she leaned down to kiss his cheek. "Nope, not at all."
"Hmm. My mistake then." He caressed her cheek, studying her face for a long moment. "I know you're going to make it a personal mission to find this guy stalking Veronica. I know I can't convince you otherwise. Can you make me a promise?"
"What promise is that?"
"Part A—that you trust the professionals to do their jobs. No undermining the protective detail and sneaking Veronica away from her guard."
Autumn frowned. "I'm not stupid. If I had my way, she'd be handcuffed to them to prevent her from blowing it off."
"Figured that was the easy sell. Part B is trickier."
"Which is?"
"You should know by now what I’m going to say: that you don't let it take over your life. Aside from this being a vacation, it's also a trip for you to handle promotions for Dissected. That novel deserves your full attention and don't even try to argue." His finger pressed to her pouting mouth, shushing her. "Veronica would tell you the same."
"Fine," she muttered begrudgingly. "But that means you're stuck helping me with interview prep."
Satisfied, Andrew rewarded her with a kiss. "It's a price I'm willing to pay."
Thinking of her nightmare, she mulled over Louise's warnings. What price would she be asked to pay as a consequence of this supposed gift? More paramount, was there anything that would be worth the cost?
Veronica's safety. Our safety.
In her mind, an echo: "Your choices are to run and risk weakness, risk losing control, or to create the terms of your relationship with the other side."
How long could she outrun something inside of her?
"You okay?"
Flashing a practiced smile, Autumn ruffled his hair. "I'm fine. Ready to play my editor's game of Twenty Questions."
* * *
Ever the ingenious creator, Andrew decided that interview prep required an atypical approach to keep Autumn on task. Ushering her out of the hotel, he waved around their list of sightseeing musts.
“Let's get this vacation started.”
“Vacation?”
Winking, Andrew ran his finger down the list. “I wager we can pull off at least three of these today, all while making sure you are a polished professional on camera tomorrow.”
First stop: the Statue of Liberty. Andrew's rationale: “Ferry time is 'ferret through the mind for a quality answer' time.” Sheepishly, he added, "I also had to book our Crown access back in April, so it's today or never if we want the full experience."
Much to Autumn's chagrin, his idea proved the perfect antidote to her jitters. At random moments—after an amusing discussion of films featuring Lady Liberty, or between dodges of dive-bombing pigeons—he would pause and fire a question.
Looking out from within Lady Liberty's copper crown: “At the age of eighteen, you inked your three-book deal with Forked Creek Press. Tell us about the experience.”
With a pirouette, Autumn hummed to herself, snapping her fingers. “It's an experience that can't truly be articulated, even by the greatest of wordsmiths—and I'm hardly one of those,” she added playfully. “For me, the key to my finding a home at Forked Creek Press was the support of my mentor, George St. James, and the keen eye of Courtney Nelson. Not once did either of them treat me differently because of my age. They critiqued my manuscript as if I'd been doing this for decades, and I feel their confidence that I could not only edit together a strong piece of literature, but also accept honesty, made me a better author.�
�
“See? You're a natural. Dropping those names like Perez Hilton at a cocktail party.”
Autumn rolled her eyes, leaning to study the distant skyline of the city. “They're looking for an endearing ingénue, the 'wise beyond her years' teen. I'm going to play the part so Jeremy can do his magic.”
After a lunch stop, they took a wander into the MOMA, admiring the collections with half-interest. It was about a vacation state of mind, as Andrew put it. No critical thought of herself or the book. No worrying about Veronica (who was in capable hands, as he frequently reminded her).
Shorter questions peppered their meandering in the museum. “Tell us about Laurel, the character at the heart of Dissected,” Andrew would throw out. She, in turn, would spin out her log line, carefully crafted with George back at Casteel. It was easier than it had seemed in their suite, staring at a numbered list of hypothetical queries.
By the time Jeremy Dixon called her cell, Autumn was beyond the notion of anxiety. She was ready for a junket. Bring on the media room. Bring on the critics. Let's chat. Courtney's words remained at the forefront of her mind: I know the book better than they do. I have the advantage.
“Autumn! I've been having some difficulty reaching you today. Is everything all right?”
Glancing at her cell, she shrugged. Three missed calls. “Sorry, Jeremy. Looks like we haven't always had reception today. Or my phone. I did have to lock it up at the Statue of Liberty.”
"The Statue of Liberty? You're sightseeing today?" Jeremy sounded a bit concerned... Perhaps more than a bit. It was cute.
"You do realize I wrote this novel between pizza and zombie movies on campus, right?" She laughed at the dead silence on the line. "Jeremy, if there's anything I've learned from the last two years, it's how to multi-task."
“Oh.” Jeremy paused long enough that Autumn wondered if he'd short-circuited entirely and revealed himself as an android. “Have you had a chance to prepare for the interview?”
“Doing it as we speak,” she replied, clapping as Andrew presented her with her coveted Pinkberry treat. “I've been promised a soft pretzel if I can tighten up my discussion of my personal connections to the domestic violence explored in the book. Trust me, I'm going to be ready for anything.”
“Soft pretzels? I'm not certain what that has to do with preparations for an interview, but I trust it is a part of your unique approach to creation.”
Autumn fought the urge to giggle. This guy needed to relax in the worst way. Courtney was a studious worker, but she was also the one who invited her to a karaoke night with authors and staff from the publishing house. Courtney's song of choice: "Dirty" by Christina Aguilera.
“Jeremy, I assure you that I may sound unconventional, but my fiancé is a documentary filmmaker. He's been monitoring my responses all day for camera worthiness.”
Andrew stole a dollop of her frozen yogurt and she hissed. Mine, she mouthed at him, jabbing the air with her spoon.
Only child, he mouthed back with a grin.
“I'll be emailing you shortly with the details of your interview: arrival time; interviewer; clothing and make-up expectations. If there are any issues, give me a call, day or night. I'm here to support you during this process,” Jeremy insisted, almost too eagerly.
Politely ending the call, Autumn threw her phone in her purse. “That was exhausting! I know he's detail-oriented, but he needs to relax.”
“Micro-manager, isn't he?”
“To the Nth bloody degree. Kill me.”
Andrew offered a spoonful of his dessert as penance for his prior thievery. “No way. Stuff a sock in his mouth? Possibly.”
Sampling his peanut butter cup concoction, Autumn moaned. Oh God. I'm going to gain thirty pounds on this trip. “Let's give him a chance... for now. He's such a newbie, I'd like to cut him some slack.”
“Speaking of slack—verb, not noun—what would you like to do with the rest of your Thursday, Ms. Brody?”
Autumn dipped her spoon into her cup, coating it with key lime deliciousness and licking it off slowly. She remained silent, allowing Andrew to draw what conclusions he might. Judging from his flushed cheeks, her message was loud and clear.
“Maybe we walk and eat?” he suggested huskily.
“You read my mind...”
* * *
Another phone call, this time from the concierge. Awkward timing, given her nude state. Even more awkward, given Andrew being in earshot.
“Hello, Ms. Brody! This is Sandra from the concierge desk. I just wanted to confirm that we were able to take care of those arrangements you requested. The flowers were delivered to the specified memorial sites this afternoon.”
“Um, thank you. Thank you very much. And the billing?”
“Just swing by the front desk anytime during your stay to settle up.”
Setting her phone down, she drew a deep breath and prepared for the inquisition. And it was forthcoming; she could feel the tension in Andrew's torso.
“Would you like to explain?”
Reluctantly, she faced him. “Okay, I know you know something weird happened, so I'm not going to lie to you. I didn't exactly find Evan's tickets on my own.”
Andrew propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze so intense she withered beside him. “You had help from the other side, so to speak.”
Autumn grimaced, forcing herself to continue. “I didn't ask for him to show up! He died in the theatre in 1991. He offered to help me, if I would help him.”
“So he found the ticket...”
“And I made sure his mother had flowers on her grave today,” she finished nervously, burying her face in her hands.
Andrew remained silent, his body swathed in late-afternoon light from the window. Bars of shadow and shimmer in neat alternation. It would be beautiful if he wasn't so damn upset.
“It was just once,” she insisted.
“No, it wasn't,” was his reply. “Just... be careful, Autumn. Last time...”
“I promised I wouldn't let any of this overshadow my entire life, and I meant it.”
And she did mean it. She threw herself into making him believe her, tender touches and whispered adoration, until fear gave way to frantic need. Consumption and connection bound them until the orange streaks of sunset slipped silently away under the cloak of silky night.
It was nearly eleven when Autumn finally heard from Veronica, beyond brief K, I'm fine textspeak. Stretched out on the bed—finally clothed, under much protest from her lover—and reviewing her novel synopsis before bed, she heaved a relieved sigh at the call display. Autumn prepared for one of two Veronicas: the devil-may-care Veronica, or the frustrated-as-hell version. Thankfully, the former greeted her on the line.
“Hey babe! How was your day?”
“Interview prep and sightseeing, with a side order of lazy in bed. And yours?”
“Well, I've got the bodyguards that would make a single woman drop to her knees. It's possible that I may be dethroned as 'Queen of the Night'. Night shift guard Ray? He's totally Gabriel's type. We spent the last hour singing Whitney Houston songs.”
“Oh, God. Evan's miserable, isn't he?” Evan's music tastes ran from classic rock to death metal. Pop was not exactly his style.
“Hell no! I've been dancing in short-shorts and a tank top. Plus he got to watch me perform tonight. You know what's hilarious? Of all of my bodyguards, only Kevin won't call me Whitney. Funny enough, the other two let me call them Kevin.”
Autumn laughed, putting the call on speaker. “Andrew's joined us, by the way. Is Kevin a stickler for the rules?”
“To say the least! Don't get me wrong: he's incredibly thorough. I feel completely safe when he's around, so thank your dad for me. But he needs to have a little fun. It won't kill him.”
“Any sign of Mister Wrong?” Andrew asked.
“Nada, and Kevin isn't happy about it. He was expecting him to at least send a letter. All of the guys are kinda surprised. Kevin also schooled the theatre on p
roper surveillance gear, so Parsons will be back on stage tomorrow. A tragedy. Understudy is pretty amazing. I did learn one thing from Kevin.”
“Oh?”
“Barrington is the shit. Aside from her determination to book my boyfriend for stalking me from another country, she's racked up ridiculous commendations. She's the youngest female detective in the history of NYPD. Ambitious, but saves kittens from trees.”
Autumn made a mental note of this. “Which means she doesn't like to not get her man. I'd really feel a lot better if we had something to go on—fingerprints, a name, a visual. Anything.”
“Me too.” Veronica murmured an apology, covering the phone as she whispered to someone. “Hey, I gotta jet. Apparently, your interview is at 7:45?”
“Yeah, my interview. And?”
“And I'm coming down to the station to watch you tape it. As if I'd miss your television debut! Courtney arranged the details with Kevin. He's a little pissed about the logistics, but Ray's going to overlap and drive me over so he can meet us there after a sweep.” The last word was emphasized, her voice drifting into 'movie trailer' mode.
“Are you sure, V? I mean, you could just watch it on TV—“
“Stuff it, Autumn. I'll be there, possibly with legit bells on. Hey, Evan can literally ring my bell!”
Andrew laughed. “That poor guy... Veronica, we've got to be at ABC for 6:30. We'll see you tomorrow.”
“Ooh, it begins: he's speaking for my wifey. Alright, get your freak on. Oh, Autumn?”
“Yes, gorgeous?”
“Do you have another copy of your ARC? I can't find mine for the life of me and after tomorrow, I'm certain its eBay value is going to soar.”
“Ha ha, wise ass. Sure thing. I'll bring it to GMA. Goodnight, V.”
Tugging away Autumn's notes, Andrew tossed them beside the bed and patted the pillow. “Not that you need beauty sleep, but I do believe it's past someone's bedtime.”
“Yeah, yeah. One sec.”
She padded across the room, retrieving a bottle of water from the dresser. “Trust Veronica to lose something that big. This is why Courtney gave me two more: one for me, and one for whoever managed to lose or ruin it.”