The Strange Path

by D. Jordan Redhawk

  The synaesthesia continued assaulting her senses. She crossed the street, awed to see wisps of orange haze coming from the engine block of a stopped car. Half the time she didn’t know if what she smelled was an actual odor or a sudden sound. Her head pounded, fit to burst open. Her stomach pulsed with heaviness. She needed to get off the street, away from the constant barrage of sensation. Against her better judgment but needing the escape, she entered a coffee shop. She found no refuge in the relative quiet. The walls pressed in, and people drank and talked and rustled newspapers in volumes loud enough to split her skull. Fighting the sensation, she ordered a latte. The change hitting the cash drawer stabbed through her eardrums. When the drink arrived, she grabbed it and fled the confining atmosphere for outside.

  The establishment had a small courtyard, off the street and somewhat private. She gratefully sank into one of the seats, setting her pack on the ground. Scrubbing at her aching temples, she wondered what to do. The idea of leaving this semi-secluded area to stagger the two blocks necessary to reach her hotel room daunted her. She didn’t know if she could make it on her own. Maybe staying here for a bit will allow things to settle enough so I can move on.

  She sat there, latte untouched before her, for the better part of an hour. Every time she considered getting up to leave, a wave of dread washed over her, the sounds from outside rising in volume. She didn’t know if she should take aspirin for the pounding in her head, considering the solid lump of eggs and acid in her stomach. If she imbibed anything, she’d probably throw up.

  Slouched in her chair, she found herself staring at her pack at her feet. Thoughts sluggish, she once again evaluated the contents of her belongings. Nothing there to help her. Unless that flask of whiskey will do the job. The thought of the fiery alcohol going down her throat made her stomach clench. The flask. The Book. The dagger and water bottle. All gifts from Fiona. The envelope with only the note inside, most of the money spent.

  The cell phone.

  Whiskey groaned at her stupidity. She had a cell phone! She could call someone.

  She rummaged in a side pocket, finding the phone. She considered calling Gin, but wasn’t sure enough of her location for Gin to find her. Ghost wouldn’t be pleased at sending Gin on a scavenger hunt, either. Squinting against the light of the tiny screen, she tried to focus her blurring vision on the list of contacts. Dorst’s name sat at the top. Swallowing against another wave of queasiness, she activated the phone.

  “Hello?”

  A wave of relief made her feel faint. “Reynhard?” Her voice cracked. Damn it.

  “Sweet Whiskey. Where are you?”

  “I don’t know.” She fought a lump in her throat, her eyes stinging with developing tears. “A coffee shop near the hotel.” She gave him the company name on her cup. “But there are at least three or four of these places around here.”

  “I’ll be there momentarily. Remain there.”

  She snorted, a watery sound of amusement. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good.” He hung up.

  Whiskey struggled with tears and sickness. When she got herself under control, she put away the phone.

  Only a few minutes passed before Dorst entered the outdoor seating area from the street. He knelt beside her, taking her hands in his.

  “Jesus, that was fast.” Whiskey clutched at his hand, ignoring a handful of patrons staring at them.

  “I awaited your return at the hotel.” His hand brushed her hair aside, his cool palm resting lightly against her fevered forehead. “You ate?”

  “Yeah. How did—?”

  Dorst smiled. “I smell breakfast on your breath.”

  Whiskey scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re not smelling something else.”

  His hand moved to cup her cheek. “That I am. Can you make it outside? My car is on the corner.”

  She took stock of herself, and nodded. “I think so.”

  “Come then. I’ll get your things.” He stood and picked up her backpack, settling it on his shoulders after an adjustment to the straps. Reaching for her, he helped her stand. They exited the tiny courtyard into the raucous noise of the street.

  The sounds beat down upon Whiskey. Her knees buckled, and Dorst quickly scooped her into his arms. Before she had time to protest at being carried like a baby, they were beside his vehicle. He didn’t set her down until he had the door open, and deposited her directly on the passenger seat. He carefully closed the door.

  For the first time in over an hour, Whiskey relaxed as the barrage of sounds and smells dissipated. Dorst opened the driver’s door, causing a sharp moment of distress. She bent forward with a groan, holding her head. She felt strong fingers massaging the base of her neck. After a moment, the headache backed off a little, the sickness following suit with the interior silence of the car. She still heard smothered street noises through closed windows, but they lacked the power to hurt her. Sitting up, she squinted at Dorst. “Thanks.”

  His dark eyes studied her. “You’re welcome. We’ll remain here for a few minutes to allow you to collect yourself.”

  Despite the fact that he’d spoken in a barely breathed whisper, she clearly heard him. It reminded her of Cora’s words being heard by Fiona’s pack at Malice. “Is it—” She winced against the sound of her own voice, rubbing one temple. Trying again, she spoke in a similar manner. “Is it supposed to happen like this?”

  “Yes. The chant has opened neural pathways in your brain that awaited opening. Your brain is attempting to make sense of the data overload, causing you pain, sickness and a certain level of...crossover between senses.”

  She remembered the odor of the truck engine earlier. “So you don’t smell sound?”

  Dorst smiled. “Some do, I suppose, but as a whole Sanguire do not.”

  Whiskey didn’t know whether or not to be disappointed. It’d been cool to see the orange mist of an overheated engine block. “How long will I be like this?”

  “Once you’ve slept, your brain should settle into its new pathways. You’ll have moments of illness and overload, but as time goes by, you’ll adapt.” He peered closely at her. “Are you ready to proceed?”

  She took stock of herself. The lump of food still sat in her stomach, and her whole body ached along with her head, but it was manageable. Nodding, she carefully reached for her seat belt.

  “Close your eyes, dear Whiskey. They need the rest, and you may suffer motion sickness as a result of the mixed signals you’re receiving.”

  Again she nodded, and did as he said.

  At the hotel, Whiskey made it to her room by leaning on Dorst’s arm. As soon as she sank onto the bed, he left to retrieve her pack from his car. The linens had been replaced, the fresh smell doing much to dispel her nausea. A thick candle burned on the desk, surrounded by a bowl of water, a sprig of pine, and a spray of jasmine. The aromatic collection canceled out the mildew odor emanating from the bathroom, relaxing her further.

  She closed her eyes. The aroma of jasmine reminded her of the memory/vision she’d had during the meditation. She heard the music that played as her parents had danced, though she couldn’t see more than the fine haze that had surrounded them. Why did he pick that flower? Why not something else?

  The door opened, as did her eyes. Dorst entered with her pack, closing the door behind him. He set the pack on the floor by the nightstand, and turned to her. “Are you feeling better?”

  She recalled the memory of him with long brown hair. “Yeah, thank you.”

  Dorst bowed. “Do you wish me to stay?”

  “I want to know what happened to me.”

  He cocked his head in thought, and straightened. “I believe we’ve already covered the pertinent data.” Taking the desk chair, he proceeded to sit with his patented flourish. “You have more questions?”

  “What was I supposed to see during the meditation?”

  He crossed his legs at the knee, gesturing with one hand. “What you were meant to see.”

  She pur
sed her lips, not having the energy to pick a fight with him. “What do others see?”

  A sly grin crossed his face. “What they were meant to see.”

  “Damn it, you know what I mean.” Dull anger caused her headache to spike. She grunted, and massaged her temples. “What did you see?”

  Dorst’s expression became contrite. “I apologize for exacerbating your condition, dear Whiskey. I did not realize the levels of determination you exercise.” He bared his throat.

  The pain in her head disrupted her focus, exhaustion seeping into her bones. “Okay. So?”

  “It varies from person to person. Some see the past, others claim to see their future. Many see nothing, but experience auditory visions. Yet others can’t explain what they do or do not see. The experience is both subjective and personal, relevant to the individual involved.” He shrugged. “I can’t say much more than that.”

  Whiskey nodded. She’d suspected something along those lines. While the vision she experienced had faded, the emotions remained strong. “So, was what I saw a memory or a figment of my imagination?”

  “Do you remember it occurring?”

  “I think so.” She rubbed her forehead with one hand. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s possible it was a memory then. I assume it was from early childhood?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dorst, his face unusually somber, considered. “Then I would postulate that it was indeed a memory you experienced. Early childhood recollections fade by adulthood. The vagaries of the brain are what cause the occasional unearthing of such things. The process of the Ñíri Kurám interrupts the existing neural pathways in the brain, thereby causing a higher likelihood of old memories to rise to the fore.”

  The fatigue in her body deepened. Unable to help herself, Whiskey lay on the bed, boots and all. The smell of jasmine and clean sheets lulled her, bringing back a ghost of the vision she’d experienced in her trance.

  “You need rest. When you wake, you’ll feel much better.”

  Her eyelids sagged, but she turned her head to look at him. “I saw you.”

  Dorst sat frozen, his already pallid complexion lightening more. His Adam’s apple bobbed once. “Excuse me?”

  “On the way to the restaurant, I thought of you and I remembered seeing you.” She rolled over onto her side to ease the ache in her neck. “We have met before. You looked about ten years younger, and had long brown hair. Did you use to work for social services in Oregon?”

  He stared at her with intensity. After a moment his color returned. He cleared his throat, and blinked excessively.

  “No.” He spoke in a quiet whisper, barely audible to her. “I did not.”

  Whiskey frowned. “I’ll figure it out, yet.”

  “I don’t doubt that you will.” Dorst stood and approached the bed. He untied her boots, and helped her out of them. “Sleep, Whiskey. Call me when you waken.”

  She nodded, her eyes closing against her wishes. “I will.” She felt a hand stroke her hair.

  The world again became dark, but this time it felt warm and comfortable.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eyes closed, Whiskey drifted in that half-aware space between sleeping and waking, sluggish thoughts keeping her company. Memories of the early morning washed over her, jarring her with their rough texture—the strange sensations, heightened senses, Dorst’s arrival and subsequent assistance.

  She cracked open one eye, vaguely pleased it didn’t hurt to see anymore. She lay on her side, one hand pillowing her cheek, a crimson dragon writhing silently on her arm. The curtains were drawn, so she didn’t know the time of day. Dorst must have closed them before he’d left. She rumbled incoherently and closed her eye. More awake than asleep, her mind kicked into gear. She scanned her body for any ill effects, relieved to note her headache and sickness were gone. Still, if she concentrated, she heard pedestrians walking outside, and hotel tenants enjoying the hourly rate. She also heard a muted thumping that didn’t have anything to do with the sexual escapades of her neighbors. What is that?

  When it appeared she wouldn’t be going back to sleep, she gave in to a bone-cracking stretch and yawned. Rolling onto her back, she sat up. She delicately walked around the subject of getting out of bed. No sickness met her appraisal. In fact, she felt hungry again.

  Whiskey stood, and stumbled to the toilet. The pillar candle on the desk had burned halfway down. She caught her pale reflection in the bathroom mirror. Remembering vampire movies and the actors and actresses she’d seen, she wondered if she’d be just as colorless in the end. Of course not, idiot. Look at Fiona’s crew. They’ve all been out in daylight. Annoyed at her stupidity, she turned away from her visage.

  She ran water in the sink. Washing her face, she noted odd sensations along her skin. She slowed her movements, and picked up a bar of soap to lather her hands. The strangest sensations occurred as she washed—nerve endings screamed with a combination of joyful pain and exquisite pleasure, an eroticism that increased as her soapy hands slid across each other. She frowned, realizing that the strangeness wasn’t gone; it had merely become normal. Dorst had said she’d adapt. Would she always feel like this, or would it eventually fade? A close study of her reflection gave no solution. Whatever the answer, at least she didn’t hurt any more. In fact, it occurred to her that having sex with these new sensations would be quite the experience. She had an urge to search the cell phone for Cora’s number.

  She snorted at the thought. She did not want to invite Fiona back into her life.

  On a lark, she closed her eyes and concentrated. Someone sang in the next room over, tuneless lyrics partially drowned out by the running water of a shower. Below her feet she heard the expected grunts of fucking. She wrinkled her nose as she smelled the results of the liaison. As soon as she registered the distaste, the aroma faded. On the street, two bums argued over who could panhandle on which corner. Past the sounds of a bus, a telephone rang and someone answered. The caller received a canned answering machine response stating the open hours of the car wash.

  That was across the street! Whiskey’s eyelids snapped open. She stared at herself.

  ***

  Leaving the hotel past midnight, Whiskey noted she’d been asleep for over fifteen hours. After several experiments, she came to the conclusion that the bizarre sensitivity continued, her hearing and sense of smell both sharpened beyond normal. Somehow, her mind had stumbled upon a method of control. Her ability to mute the sounds and aromas to manageable levels had become second nature while she slept.

  Relieved as well as confused, she wandered along the sidewalk in thought, ignoring other pedestrians. Even at this hour, there were plenty of people on the streets. Testing her newfound abilities, she looked up at an office building, zeroing in on a third-floor window with a light on. She tilted her head to one side, listening intently.

  A pleased smile crossed her face as she heard a man on the phone with his wife, explaining why he hadn’t come home yet. She heard the wife on the other end of the line, bitching about another dinner ruined because of his job. A louder, closer sound overlapped his voice, one of rustling cloth and a zipper. Raising her eyebrows at an almost indistinct moan, she chuckled. The man hastily hung up the phone, complaining to his companion that his wife might have overheard. A gasp cut off his arguments. Whiskey shook her head, wondering how long it would be before the unknown person had both their clothes off. The muted thumping that permeated everything increased in tempo. She grinned, pulling her attention back from their adultery, and resumed walking.

  She’d solved the question of the thumping noises, realizing they were heartbeats. It made an odd sort of sense; if her hearing had increased to such levels, surely she’d be able to hear the heartbeat of people nearby. By extension, the pace of the beat gave a fair indication of how much exertion a person experienced without having to see them.

  The cell phone sat silent in her pocket. She’d told Dorst she’d call when she woke up, but she didn’t
want to be around anyone. Despite her hotel bill being paid for several more hours, she’d chosen to leave the premises for the night. Her newfound abilities beckoned her. Besides, next time she wanted to be where she could immediately crash, thus avoiding the unpleasantness of the aftereffects. She shivered at the memory of her migraine.

  What would happen next time? Would other senses become sharper or would the meditation affect the ones already attuned? She weighed the temptation against her last session. It had taken nearly a full day to recover. Would that be repeated? She didn’t have the money to remain at a hotel for another night. Dorst had already paid for an extra evening and, while she couldn’t shake the impulsive trust she’d placed in him, she didn’t like being beholden to anyone. If she made another attempt, it would have to be on her terms and somewhere safe. She’d need a place to sleep.

  A niggling worry gnawed at the desire. What would she see this time, more of the same? If anything, the thought of having another dream as intense as the last filled her with dread. She didn’t want more memories of what she’d lost. Gaining further abilities didn’t warrant the suffering. It wasn’t worth it. Maybe she should stop now, let nature take its course. Both Daniel and Dorst had said that the Ñíri Kurám occurred on its own over several years when a Sanguire was left to his or her own devices.

  What do I want?

  Flashing across her mind’s eye, she saw the woman from her nightmares smiling across a table at her, verdant eyes bright. Whiskey hadn’t seen this scene before. She swallowed, mouth dry as she stopped dead in her tracks, smelling a seductive spicy odor beneath delicate perfume. I’m smelling a dream? Her body responded to the scent of its own accord, a gentle pulse of arousal flickering in her belly.

  “Whassa matter, honey? You lose yer little friends?”

  She shook her head, regaining her mental balance as she glanced at an old-timer leering at her from the corner. Her nose filled with the ripe scent of old urine and dust and sweat. She gave him a thorough once-over before sneering as he rubbed his crotch in lewd suggestion. “Fuck off,” she said, walking away.