The Complete Set

by Ainsley Shay

  Most of the seats had already been taken. There was one in the back of the room, right behind Snow and I made my way to it. “He is so freaking hot,” Snow hissed as I walked past her.

  The walls of the classroom were lined with books, most of them old and worn. The shelves were an organized display of many of the same titles we had at the bookstore. I would never have thought about it before, but with a large collection of books like this, why hadn’t I seen Mr. Pene come into the store?

  Mr. Pene stood at the front of the room reading aloud from a book propped on the podium. He looked completely absorbed, oblivious to the noise and shuffling going on around him. Fine, incomplete, vein-like threads of ink spread out over his collarbone while the rest of the tattoo remained hidden under his shirt. For a brief moment I wondered what the rest of the tattoo looked like.

  “How the hell are you not drooling right now?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “It’s hard, but I’m containing myself.” I took out my notebook and set it on the desk.

  “You’re a freakin’ whack job,” she said, shaking her head. I rolled my eyes and smiled.

  When I looked toward the front of the class, Mr. Pene’s eyes found mine in a fraction of a second. His glare pierced through the dense space between us like a dagger stabbing smooth flesh. I broke the contact, looked down at my notebook and tried to catch the breath stolen from my lungs. How had he done that?

  Fifteen more dreaded minutes until class was over. The words of Mr. Yves settled against the walls of my brain, don’t wish your life away. It was one of his favorite sayings. Lately, that was all I did: wish for moments of my life to pass without completely living them. Even now, I watched the clock, willing the minute hand to move, edging it forward a measly fifteen minutes in my mind—only a minuscule block of time, but nonetheless a part of my life. Of course, the clock didn’t move any faster. The second hand ticked by, passing the hour and minute hands—tick, tick, tick, as Mr. Pene droned on and on about how the creative and abstract use of colors in our writing can turn our descriptions into words that could bring the page alive.

  “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you got to class,” Snow whispered.

  Ignoring her, I fought the urge to reach for my headphones and plug them in to drown out both Mr. Pene and her.

  “Miss Snowhill, is there something you’d like to share with the rest of us?” Mr. Pene’s words directed the attention of the entire class to Snow and me.

  Snow cleared her throat. “I was just telling Iris how interesting this topic is, and how it could be useful to her if...” She shrugged, plastered on a fake sorry face, and continued, “...she could see color.”

  When she looked over her shoulder at me, she was beaming, and at my expense, no less. In that moment, if I had the powers to do so, instead of the one gifted to me—seeing everything muted and lifeless—I would pick her up and toss her across the room. But instead, I turned my complete attention back to our teacher and wished for more of my life to blur past.

  Mr. Pene threaded his fingers together and put them behind his head. I’m sure if I glanced around the room right now, I’d find every girl aside from me, swooning. By his shrewd smile, he knew this too as he paced the length of the front of the class. When he stopped, he lowered his hands, looked at me, and tilted his head. “Well, Miss Thorn, I’m sorry for your... inability to see the beauty around you, but I just suppose you’ll have to be creative in finding other ways to use description.

  “As for you, Miss Snowhill, I expect to see color bursting in all of your future assignments.” The class snickered and I tried hard to ignore them. Mr. Pene trooped on, “Where were we? Oh yes!” He clapped his hands together. “Your homework”—the class groaned, but he chuckled and continued—“is to write one thousand words describing a dream... or a nightmare.” He smiled at this, only to himself, but I saw it—a small upward tug in the crook of his mouth. Disguising it, he added, his eyes once again locked onto mine and his smile broadened.

  I must have fidgeted without realizing it, because he asked, “Are you all right, Miss Thorn?”

  “Yes... fine. Um, just a draft.” I rubbed my arms and shrugged it off. No, I’m not all right. Freaky dreams have become a nightly ritual for me, and the last thing I wanted was to be graded on them.

  “Don’t hold back.” He was speaking to me like I was the only one in the room. I looked away. “This is a creative writing class... so be creative. Embellish if you have to. Fill in the gaps with your imagination. And,” he held up a finger, “it has to make sense. It must have a beginning, middle, and end.”

  There couldn’t be a worse assignment—although, on a positive note, I already had tons written on the subject.

  “The assignment is due on Wednesday.”

  “This Wednesday?” asked Jessica.

  “Is that going to be a problem for you, Miss Timbers?”

  Jessica jutted out her chest. “No, I was just making sure I heard you correctly.”

  “You did,” he said to her. Then to the rest of the class, “You dream every night. Write it down, spruce it up with interesting details and good description and, voila—you’ve got your thousand words.”

  When I looked at him again, he was closing the book on the podium. He looked up at me. Long lashes shadowed his piercing eyes. He said, “Make sure you get plenty of sleep.” Bile roiled in my gut as his eyes restrained me in my seat.

  He finally looked away, releasing me from his visual grip. The bell rang, pulling me away from his reach, and I silently sent thanks to whatever god was responsible for time.

  “Iris, what’s the matter? You look like someone just sucker-punched you,” Snow said.

  Someone kind of did. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

  12

  Lady Catherine once again stole my precious sleep. Her story continued like a weekly reality show on TV. Except, it seemed the only difference was I had no idea when the next episode would come on. I had read a thousand books, and never once had I read about dreams in a sequential order to tell a tale of some archaic time and place. The time on my phone read 3:46 A.M. I turned on the lamp, snatched the journal off the nightstand and began to write:

  12 days after ~

  “Have a seat and drink, my dear. Taste the gift of life I give to you,” said the Lord.

  She badly wanted, needed a drink from the goblet. Lady Catherine picked up the goblet and tasted the dark liquid. The sweet gift slid down her throat, heating the passage toward her empty stomach. Immediately its effects grabbed her and her head began to swim. The servants were next to her instantly, filling her plate with fresh vegetables, pig, lamb, and warm breads. One of them refilled her goblet with the toxic liquid. She took another sip. She glanced at her plate, which was overflowing with food, and wanted to push it away. But out of respect, she left the plate where it was. She picked up the piece of bread and knew it would be enough for now. She reached again for the goblet, and the Lord said, “Ah, I see you’re enjoying the sweet nectar, my dear girl.” His beautiful face was beaming with delight. She drank. The thick liquid quenched a hunger more than her thirst.

  She noticed there was nothing on the Lord’s plate. “Are you not eating?” she asked, as she watched him cradle the goblet and swirl its contents.

  “No, dear.” He toasted his goblet to her. “I’m quite well.”

  Lightheadedness claimed her once again, and she gripped the table’s edge. She saw the guard in front of her sway from side to side. The Lord’s laughter roared throughout the dining room. “Delicious, is it not?” he asked.

  Pushing back her chair, she tried to stand. The loud bark penetrated the room, and the guard started toward her. She watched as the Lord waved him back to his post. She saw the regret on the guard’s face as she fell back into the chair. The burn in her stomach was edging its way into her throat. “More bread,” she rasped. She picked up the loaf and tore off a piece. “May I please have some water?”

  She saw the Lord ma
ke a gesture to the servant, and in a moment, she was given water. She gulped the clear, cool liquid and placed the empty goblet on the table. “More, please.” The servant replenished the water. This went on until she had drunk four goblets of water. Her mind began to clear, and she silently swore to herself to refuse any more of the wine.

  “Thirsty, are we?” asked the Lord, chuckling to himself.

  She picked up her knife and fork, cut a small piece of the pig, and placed the piece on her tongue. Reluctantly, she closed her mouth and chewed until she could swallow the masticated, repulsive piece of meat. She was not as hungry as she had been earlier; unease and anxiety now fed her appetite. The fear that had been laced around her raw nerves was making her nauseous. She wanted to vomit the meat she’d just swallowed.

  “How was your rest today?” asked the Lord.

  “Fine, thank you.” Hoping to relax the gurgling in her stomach, she ate more bread. “Why aren’t there any windows?”

  Ignoring her question, he asked, “So, you’re planning to depart in the morning?”

  “Yes, at sunrise.”

  “Where is your destination?”

  “Chateau Delafonte. I am to be married to Prince Astley in one week’s time.”

  “I see.” Lord Darenfys delightedly clasped his hands together. “What is handsome and beastly? Lives beneath the surface, always hungry for life, and feeds upon the soul.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  The Lord’s laughter roared throughout the room. “God? I’m sorry my dear, but you will find nothing bearing his name here at Skelside.”

  Catherine ignored his blasphemy.

  He snorted and took another drink from the goblet. “I have a proposition for you, young one.”

  “I would appreciate you not addressing me as such.”

  “My dear girl, this is my home, and I shall address you in any way I wish.” There was no humor in his tone, and she knew not to push the issue further.

  “What’s your proposition?” she asked.

  He steepled his long fingers and studied his perfect hands. “Actually, it’s more of an opportunity or bargain if you will.”

  “My Lord, I do not bargain.”

  Lord Darenfys looked at her then, and tilted his head. “I don’t believe you have a choice, young one.”

  Frustrated now with his mocking tone and riddles, she asked, “What do you have that you could possibly offer me?”

  A deep chortle stayed trapped in his throat, rolling around, lingering for his benefit only. A broad all-knowing smile slithered across his perfect lips. It was as if she could hear a thousand heartbeats thump within the prolonged moment.

  “Your freedom.”

  Her sharp intake of breath was the only audible noise in the great dining room. “You can’t keep me here,” she said.

  “So, you plan to lose. I would say your lack of self confidence is a shame. That is, if it weren’t for my gain.”

  She stood, outraged. “I will not play a game for your amusement, nor should I have to win for my freedom.”

  “My Lady, you came into my home needing food and shelter, and I gave them to you. So, in return, I can request whatever I want, and I want to play a game.”

  With reluctance, she sat back down.

  “Ah, little one, now you’re beginning to understand.”

  “I don’t see where I have much choice in the matter.”

  “You don’t,” said Lord Darenfys.

  She wanted to scream, cry out, and slam her fists against the table in frustration. But she did none of those things. She let the tears burn behind her eyes as she refused to let them fall. Realizing she was defeated, she took a deep breath and asked, “What do I have to do?”

  He took a drink of the wine. “We’ll get to that later. For now, I’ll tell you what the winner shall receive. Your prize, if you shall win, you may leave Skelside right away. But if I win, you stay here, forever.” His sinister smile amplified into laughter.

  She looked across the room to the guard. She pleaded for him to do something with her eyes. But from what she gauged in his statuesque face, she would receive nothing in return. He was perfectly still, a statue in this prison of Hell.

  “May I be excused?” she asked the Lord.

  “You may.” He nodded to the guard. She rose and pushed back her chair. The Lord wasn’t done with her yet. “Again, I must say, that dress I have chosen for you suits you better than the one you arrived in.”

  “Excuse me?” She refused him the satisfaction of looking down at the dress. She gave him a slight bow as she wondered where he had been lurking when he watched her walk into his windowless Hell. Chills scampered up her spine. She closed her eyes and prayed. Prayed for her life.

  13

  I was able to go back to sleep for an hour or so, but I was exhausted when the alarm went off. Exhaling, I pushed away the covers and began to contemplate what dream or nightmare I could contrive to hand in for the assignment. I had already decided I wasn’t going to be graded for one of the dreams in my journal. Although, that would be the easiest—pick one, tweak it, done—but there was something too personal with them to share. Besides, a thousand words would take no time at all to write.

  Snow had to work after school. I stopped in the bookshop to check on Mr. Yves and let him know I was okay. I was so tempted to tell him about the statue and the notes I had found at my dad’s house, but I knew he would call the police. I mean, why wouldn’t he? He was logical and that was the logical thing to do. That’s probably what I should have done. But first, I needed to figure out who was C.W.? In my dad’s letter, he said C.W sent a new note each year. I wondered where all the rest were. The most frustrating part to this so-called mystery was one question would lead to ten others, and those led to more. On Sunday, while I was at the bookshop, I had searched in at least twenty books for what I was experiencing. As expected, I found nothing.

  I headed over to the coffee shop to work on my paper. It was almost four and the coffee shop was nearly empty. I ordered my coffee and claimed the table I liked in the back corner. I took out my laptop and settled into the chair. When I was eight or nine years old, I’d have this recurring dream of a spotted furry creature whose body resembled that of a T-Rex, only, instead of short front legs, it had long legs like a giraffe, and its head was that of a poodle. Hardly a mythical creature, but my imagination had always been a little out there. Deciding that this would be the hero of my assignment, I opened my laptop.

  After two hours of trying to wrap my head around an idea into which I could incorporate this spotted furry T-Rex/poodle, I was nearly ready to give in and choose one of my real dreams. I propped my elbows on the table and lowered my head into my hands. A low growl grumbled in my throat.

  “What was that for?”

  I looked up to see Chandler holding an iced coffee in one hand and pulling out the chair opposite me with the other.

  “You mind?” he asked as he straddled the chair without waiting for my answer.

  “Does it matter?” I asked, not caring that agitation had woven itself around each of my words. I was already frustrated with this assignment, and I was in no mood for his games. We’d only had three insignificant conversations, and each time he had either irritated the hell out of me, or baffled me. No one should get away with being as annoying as he was.

  “Which question are you questioning?” He set the cup on the table and rested his arms on the back of the chair.

  Without taking my eyes from his, I said, “Both.” If I had to choose between living with Chandler and the spotted furry T-Rex for the rest of my life, I’d totally choose the T-Rex. At least from what I remember, the only game he played was fetch.

  Chandler shrugged in that smooth, easy-lazy-sly way he’d perfected, to the point of complete arrogance. “Well, since I’m already sitting, you can tell me why you’re growling.”

  I closed my laptop and started to pack my stuff into my bag.

 
“Hey, don’t go.” He reached across the table and rested his hand on mine for the briefest second.

  I stopped packing my stuff and looked up to meet his stare.

  “Listen, I just came in for a coffee, saw you sitting over here, and noticed you looked upset.” He offered the lazy shrug again. “So, naturally, as a friend, I thought I’d come over and see if there was anything I could do.”

  I was pretty sure my bottom jaw was sitting on the table. In the few seconds it took to clear my head, we continued to stare at each other. Friends? Once the thick fog began to disappear from my mind, I shook my head. “Are you for real?”

  Nodding, he said, “Flesh and blood.” Grinning, he picked up his coffee, offered me an air toast, and took a sip.

  The guy seriously had to be kidding. I felt like I was being set up for the prank of the century.

  “Honestly, though, we should be friends.”

  “Why? Why on earth would you want to be my friend? You don’t even know me. Besides, I’m really not that nice.”

  “Maybe I can change that.” He laid his hand over his chest. “See, I’m a nice guy. I just can’t help myself.” He held up a finger. “But, I wasn’t always nice. Believe it or not, I used to be a complete dick. So, if there’s a chance for me to be nice, then there is definitely a chance for you.” He turned his finger toward me.

  “And, you know this how?” Not only was his arrogance annoying as hell, but also the grin that never left his face and his lazy nonchalant shrugs. They were enough to make me want to slap him. It was more than a little irritating, and I if I admitted to myself, a tiny bit hot.

  “I just know,” he said and took another sip of his drink.

  I replied, using one of Snow’s favorite lines, “Whatever.”

  He leaned over the table and propped himself on his folded arms. “Are you ready to talk to me about the nightmares?”

  Nightmares. The simple and horrific word snaked chills up my spine into each follicle of hair. If I were a cat, my fur would be standing on end. “Not again.”