I scrape it in, pulling out as many roots and bugs as I can, and will Han to see it through my eyes. He shivers as he sees the gritty substance move, pull back slightly from the dirt that got scooped up with it. But he wasn't with me on that dilapidated stage, to have seen Iniga reveal herself by pulling herself together, gritty microscopic piece by gritty microscopic piece.
When there's no more for us to find and only still soil is left, I collapse against the side of the building and cry. My bones feel dead, useless. Just being near to it makes my head feel so much more fragmented, all sensation, no meaning. And how it moves. I don't know that I can even carry the cup without it disrupting my efforts to maintain a physical form. My throat tastes like dirt.
Finally, Han picks me up, carries me to a cab, and then up to our room. He tucks me into bed and lays next to me, stroking my hair and wondering what's next for us. His bleed's full of conflict and dismay. He still thinks I'm crazy, but he knows that there's nothing left keeping us together now that we've finished my mission.
Chapter Seven: Mistakes
Han:
Every night with Aletta around is the soundest sleep I've ever gotten. I know I did the right thing in patching things up with her. The better sleep is just from the absence of guilt. But reality eventually returns.
I have no clue what's in the cup. She seems to think it's more than dirt. And maybe it is—when I catch glances out of the corner of my eye, it seems to be moving. Mostly, I avoid even looking at it.
We clear out a bottle with a better seal to put it in, back at the hotel. “So what now?” I wrap my hand around Aletta's, over the bottle.
“I—I didn't think this far ahead. I hope that I'll figure it out in dream, same as how I found out she was there.”
I refrain from commenting on her assigning the fluidly-moving dirt in the bottle a gender.
“Sleep, then go home in the morning? I've got work, you know.”
She stares at me, then smiles. “I really do appreciate you taking the time out to come here with me.”
A spark of euphoria ignites in me, and I pull her into my arms. “Don't mention it.”
She raises her lips to mine, but her eyes are on the container on the nightstand. I take the hint, and leave the kiss chaste. “Let's get you to sleep, then.”
I tuck the covers under her chin, and curl around her. I'm going to miss this, once we're back home. Her presence is enough to lull me into a dreamless sleep within minutes.
Aletta:
I sit in Han's dream, wait for the inevitable molecular scene change or stalker. But nothing happens. I watch him tumbling through the air, and strolling along deserted streets, but I'm more alone than ever.
I don't understand, and I don't know what to do next. I have no clue what to do with the bottle I hid in the back of his spice rack, not having a physical place to store it, and not trusting myself to tear the gateways needed to bring it back to Limbo myself. I'm too embarrassed to show myself to Han, and instead push myself through to materialize in his bedroom while he's sleeping.
Weeks of Han's time pass, and though I manifest every night to check on it, look at it, I'm still no closer to figuring it out. The embarrassment fades, replaced by desperation. And for a few nights I brave coming in early enough for Han to welcome me, make me a cup of tea, and tuck me into bed. Every night, every dream that isn't hijacked, another piece of my hope dies.
Lorelei is getting more insistent, scanning for me every time I return to Limbo. It's getting harder and harder to sneak away before she sees me. And my luck has run out. As I leak away so Han can go to work, she corners me in the edge of Limbo. From her face, the news isn't good.
“Where have you—”
“I wanted to be alone.”
“But you still haven't finished your assignment, and people are getting pissed. Have you even been trying?”
I bite my lip. “I haven't felt up to doing it.”
“That stops now. You need to finish it, or they will restrict you here. You know how you hate being trapped; but if that happens, and you leave the archives, they'll send someone after you, the hard way.” I know she means enlisting the Reapers. “They don't put up with dissenters ignoring the community's goals. You keep defying them, they might even flash you, see if you grow a more helpful personality next time.”
The helplessness returns, and a knot settles into my gut. If that happens, then no one can figure out what to do with Iniga's essence. I have to keep myself intact for her.
“I'll take care of it.”
Han:
Aletta's lips are pinched with fear as she shuffles her feet on my doorstep, gathering the courage to knock. I've only seen her a handful of times since Italy, and if she wasn't radiating the same manic energy she was full of the first night we spent together, she would be a welcome sight. I worried that I had done something wrong, that she was uncomfortable with me and avoiding me. Certainly, she hadn't been eager to talk to me. No childlike smiles or lust for adventure.
I'm extra cautious. I heard a creak ten minutes ago, peeped through the peephole in case it was the deliveryman dropping off a package. But it was just her. Now, I'm waiting for her to knock so that it doesn't seem creepy that I knew she was there. Except that's only exposed her own standoff to me. Has she done this before, and then left? Why's she avoiding me?
Finally, she taps on the door. I wait several seconds, and then open it, let her in. This close, she's a mess.
“Is something wrong?” Her hands are trembling, and I hold them still. She shakes her head, ignores my question. I lead her to the couch, sit her down, and fetch her a glass of tea.
I let my eyes roam her face, noting the tense, quivering lips, the tightness under her eyes, the muscles in her jawline working. She can't look me in the eye, so I tip her chin up to ask her to.
Instead, she puts the tea down and lunges into my arms.
Her lips sear me, a potent combination of need and fear—fear of rejection?—translating to the most amazing kiss I've experienced. She kisses me like she'd die without our tongues crashing together. Like I'm a piece of her that she needs to feel, to know it's still there.
Her skin is cool under my hands, eases the fevered feeling I've possessed for her since our lips touched to Tchaikovsky.
There's no hallucinations this time, only us. I stumble, another foot closer to the bedroom, and the bed calls us with a magnetic pull. She has my shirt off by the time we fumble through the doorframe, and I don't even remember pulling her dress off. It's probably somewhere on the floor behind us.
Even after spending so long inhaling her, cuddling her soft body, it hasn't prepared me for actually having her. At least half of my awkwardness and lack of coordination is because I can't figure out which beautiful part of her to stroke first, or whether to dive past all of that, and feel her warm flesh wrapped around me.
I never can say no to her.
Aletta:
His touch is the only thing that can cut through my horror at Lorelei's news, and the disorienting pull from the container in his kitchen. I need his lips on me, his hands on me, to assure me I'm worth fighting for. That I may not be able to give Iniga or myself peace, but I can still bring some measure of it to him.
He kneels off the bed, pressing his lips to my sex without a moment of reluctance. My initial quiver of self-consciousness dies away under his tongue, chased away by lightning quick lashes that reduce me to an incoherent creature of need. He gasps his satisfaction into me at my moans, and I moan just a little louder, a little more, to hear him echo it. I squeeze his sides, and he presses my legs away from him as it impedes his angle. The added note of force, of reaction, catches my imagination. All the more as bits of his bleed sink into me, pressing the taste of my own arousal into my mind.
I'm not guiding the encounter, not shaping it the way I had to in dreams. And it feels more honest, more true to both of us. A perverse relief goes through me that this is how I get to experience him, for the first time.
And last time.
He backs away and my body cries for him, an echo of his body crying for me. I pull him to the bed with me, and straddle him, put my weight on our joined hands to savor the trust he's given me, taking me to his bed. He arches, strong shoulders straining to raise his head enough to nip my neck. And I see his need to touch, sparked all the hotter by its denial. I release his hands and sit up, let him indulge and touch me.
This'll be the only night he has to do it.
Han:
Her back arches as she rides me, a soft and steep curve that reminds me of that first night, after the concert. I stroke her spine, admiring her flexibility, the wanton way it spreads her legs further apart. She's a work of art in motion. Living, breathing, moaning motion. With the sweetest pussy I've ever tasted. Everything about that woman is sweet. Buried under layers of crazy and anxiety, but sweet nonetheless.
Even in the heat of the moment, her skin's cool, an oasis against my parched tongue, and her gasps are demure. I'm consumed in her flesh against mine, those soft breasts sliding against me when she leans down to kiss me, and her hair tumbling across my shoulders and face with every movement. I pull it out of the way to look at her, see those hazel eyes widening, then shutting, with her release, and I tug her a little harder to hurry mine along. As satisfying as it's gonna be, anyways, I want this to be something we share together. An inadvertent closeness that can stand in contrast to how rarely I think I understand her the rest of the time.
“Han,” she whispers, something melancholic and desperate in her eyes. Something I definitely want to chase away.
I want to share this with her. I want us to be two pieces of the same entity, connected and together. And she obliges me, slowing her pace slightly, but letting me impale her more firmly on my cock. Her body spasms around me, clenching me with enough need and abandon that it sends me along after her.
I'm asleep almost immediately, her smooth skin against mine, and the rhythm of her breathing even with mine.
Us. Together.
Aletta:
I focus on his essence inside me. I can feel it, a warmth and glow. I harden myself around it, so that its heat won't be dispersed in the rest of me, bleeding its power and potential for new life away in my own dead flesh. Still, it warms me, filling me with a sensation of euphoria.
I don't want to give it up, though I have to assume it's just bottled afterglow, and will fade in time anyways.
But it triggers a thought process; I can't carry Iniga into Limbo, because physical objects can't travel between existences. At least, no way that I've learned or seen. But Han's seed inside me already proves that's not the case. If it's inside me, maybe I can take it. It's the best shot I have at this. I'll have a much harder time sneaking back to Han once I've passed his gift to me on to a waiting incubus.
He's in the shower, getting ready for a busy day at work. I can still feel his agitation at not being able to climb back into bed with me. His desire for more makes my work feel even more like a betrayal. I want to stay here forever, my skin bared to him, awaiting every bit of affection he might offer. I want to forget about Lorelei, about Iniga. About myself. But that's not an option.
I dig the bottle out of the cabinet, mix it with the cold tea he served me last night, and down the whole cup as fast as I can. The gritty dirt catches between my teeth, and I suppress a gag at the taste. But before the nausea is totally gone, the pain sets in. It stings my throat like a beehive, sends flashes of heat and bite through me, just as acidic as my own blood and substance.
The fluid replaces my blood with electricity. I try to restrain myself, but can't hold back a cry as I drop to my knees. My muscles seize, spasm, and the world wavers above me. My throat burns, flesh peeling and shriveling away from the remnants of the liquid. I fight to swallow again, my cries now choked, hoarse gasps.
But I have a mission, now. I have to contain it, isolate it within me. I try to erect walls, same as the ones containing Han's seed. Dimly, I hear him stumble out of the shower at my cry, look down at me seizing on the floor. He knocks a bowl of beaded fruit off his coffee table while scrambling to get his phone. He calls 911 and tries to describe the seizures wracking my body, his voice fading in and out of my shattered consciousness. He drops to his knees beside me, near frantic with worry.
I shut my eyes, and his hand is cool on my forehead. I open them again, take in his cool brown gaze, but his eyes capture me, linking us, pulling him into me, instead of just me being in him. The walls are consuming more and more of me, as I have to rob my form to reinforce them, make them denser. He shrieks in pain and collapses next to me as the walls demand more and more of him. I give up any semblance of form to protect him, build myself entirely into those barriers, but it's too late. His eyes are wide on the spot where I was, on his floor, but they no longer see.
I can't tell if he's breathing, or if it's already pulled his entire spirit in. My mind clings tight to his as I throw myself at the barrier between worlds, to explore the essence within me. It seems like my best chance at saving him, preventing it from clutching him further. But I can't focus enough. It rebuffs me.
I try again to throw myself into dream. This time, the weft of reality gives, and the waking world dissolves behind me, Han's lifeless eyes the last thing I see.
Chapter Eight: In Memory
I black out, and when I open my eyes, he's not with me.
I failed him.
I can't fail Iniga, not with Han's unwitting sacrifice.
I always kill those I love. Just by being near them.
I shut my eyes again to restrain the tears amassing. I hear soft footfalls, and feel a delicate hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake. I open my eyes to Iniga's radiant face.
“Come on; you know we can't be tardy today, of all days.”
I hug her, bury my shoulder in her soft flesh. She laughs and shoves me away. “I'm serious. You know that Tomasso hates it when we're late. I won't be dismissed like Rosalia was.”
I sit up, a familiar loose nightdress falling against skin so recently warmed by Han's touch. Iniga is already dressed, bouncing in eagerness. She helps me with my hair, securing it with a wet leather tie, so that when the leather dries and shrinks, it'll hold tighter.
I slip into my clothes, gather my practice dress, and follow on her heels.
The boarding house the young performers still under their parents' care use is adjacent to the concert hall. The woman tending our floor is already waiting to walk us there, ensure that no one is skipping work for some more carnal amusements. The cold dawn light cuts through the air, illuminates Iniga's eager face, leeches the warmth from her blonde hair.
I can't help stealing looks at her through our barrework and stretches. The centuries fall away from me, leaving me fourteen and unweathered. My rebirth seems a nightmare, a delusion of sleep.
The other dancers around us draw my attention, their names and demeanors as familiar as my own, in this insular little family. There's Rafaello, my first true crush, chatting with a number of the girls. When I died, he had just gotten into trouble with another dancer, causing her to drop out of the troupe, and him to quietly marry her.
There but for the grace of God, I guess.
I shunt that knowledge to the back of my mind; I shouldn't have it. I desperately want to believe this is real, that I can stay here, rewrite our endings.
But as we drift to the stage from the classroom, I spot Han sitting in the audience seats, napping. A pang of relief sinks into me. I didn't kill him or fail him.
I want to run to him, but Tomasso is staring at the dancers, preparing to call us to order. And I can't leave Iniga. She almost glows, the embodiment of the innocence I left behind. I can't take my eyes off her. I memorize every freckle, every stray hair.
She stares at me, raises an eyebrow. I can only imagine how glassy my eyes must be. Then, her gaze snaps away from me as a deep voice demands her attention.
“Iniga, on the count, let's pick up sixteen beats before the
fouette variation. And remember, keep those frappes sharp.”
Iniga nods, turns away from me. She stands and straightens, swiping a baby curl off her forehead, but attempting to not disturb the strands still in her bun. The pianist plays the last few measures, and then returns to the beginning, giving her an opening.
She's poetry made flesh. There's rough edges due to the new choreography and her own inexperience. Her new costume is stiff, and I can tell she's resisting the urge to resettle it on her hips, so that it's less of an impediment.
Ghosts of old emotions stir in me, prodded loose by every detail I'd forgotten. The reddened eyes of the other corps de ballet dancers, varying tutu lengths and materials reflecting so many nights of heated discussions among the soloists.
We are all still in mourning for Emma Livry, who only recently died after months of struggle, but in the time since her accident, those who seek to protect us have been making much more noise, demanding we use modern fire retardant fabrics. They lack the life of a true dancer's raiment, and are much less enjoyable to witness in motion. Better to just shorten the hemline some, so there's somewhat less fabric.
Half the dancers here would willingly choose a fiery death over a lackluster performance. I suppose that says something about our priorities, but death is inevitable, and the immortality every performer wishes for is that of the prima ballerina assoluta, the prodigious, the irreplaceable.
My eyes drift away from Iniga. The sound of her shoes has roused Han, and he recognizes me. He makes his way to the stage, bumping into two other dancers but only passing through them. I know that feeling well. He swears, a noise that makes me jump, and meets my eyes. I'm the only one here who sees or hears him, and I think we both know it.
Beyond The Veil: A Paranormal & Magical Romance Boxed Set Page 58