by L. Penelope
“I won’t. I’m sorry.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me alone with Natasha.
“You think you’re gonna take my place, don’t you?” she sneers. “Well, not for long.” And then she disappears before my eyes.
“Lunch is ready,” Karen calls out from downstairs.
I tiptoe back to the living room and through the maze of toys. The mess is just a low drone of tension in the back of my mind, dwarfed by this new disaster. A picture on the bookshelf makes me stop short. It’s of Karen and her husband David. Natasha stands between them, smiling brightly. They’re all in front of a Ferris wheel at some kind of carnival.
Next to the photo, a newspaper article has been cut out and framed. Father charged in local teen’s murder. Fourteen-year-old Natasha Hawley was stabbed to death by her biological father only weeks after her adoption was complete. Her father, Trevor Chamberson, 36, lost custody of his daughter and was facing physical abuse charges. Thursday night he broke into the home of the teen’s adoptive parents and stabbed her while she slept.
I put the frame back down, not wanting to read the rest. The date on the paper is from three years ago. Tears pool in my eyes as I turn around.
In the kitchen, Karen hums as she sets plates of grilled cheese sandwiches on the breakfast bar. I didn’t know what to make of her at first, but if she’s the type to adopt a fourteen-year-old, then I guess I can cut her some slack.
In the midst of the toy landfill clogging the living room, I fall to my knees. The defeat and helplessness wash over me in waves, tug me into their tide and try to drown me. My vision narrows into tiny tunnels, and I sink.
“You’re not hungry, Maia?” Karen’s voice is from far away, on the other side of the tunnel. The side where kind people take in discarded children and shower them with more toys than they could play with in a lifetime.
I can’t respond, though, because I’m under water.
Yellow with yellow. Orange with orange. There aren’t enough bins for each color to have its own, so I’ll have to combine. Maybe I can convince Karen to buy me some more.
Blues and greens will have to go together. A rainbow-striped frog temporarily baffles me.
A figure blocks the light from the window. Natasha looms over me on the bottom step. When I finally meet her gaze, her mouth forms words with no sound, but I can tell what she says.
“Not for long,” her lips tell me. The expression on her face makes me shiver.
I refocus on the little things I can control. Until I get another bin, purple will have to go with pink.
I save the reds for last. It’s my least favorite color.
Chapter Five
“CALEB, look.” Genna peers over the edge of the terrace to the pavement one story below. The area behind the student center swells and ripples with the sea of bodies. It’s a favorite lunchtime meeting place with people filling every inch of concrete, enjoying the crisp afternoon.
“What is it?” I follow her eyeline to the lower level, which is oddly empty. Wedged in the corner between the wall and a planter box lies a dead pigeon. Genna points again. The pigeon’s wing twitches — not dead after all.
For a brief moment I marvel at this small glimpse into Maia’s life, unable to tell the living from the dead.
“We should help it,” Genna says, concern filling her voice.
“How do we get down there?” The lower terrace is walled off, with only a glass door leading into the building’s lower level.
“It’s the grad student patio. The lounge is through there. Maybe we can get someone to let us in.”
“I can just climb down,” I say, and I hop over the railing. There are too many people around to fly. I could avert their attention for the moment, but it’s just as easy to leap down. Genna begins to protest, but I’ve already made the jump before she’s completed her objection.
I approach the bird, reaching for it with my power. It’s missing quite a large chunk of feathers, in addition to having a wing punctured and a leg fractured.
“What sort of trouble did you get yourself into, little one?”
He stares at me out of one eye as I gather him in hand. I heal his leg immediately, as it was causing the most pain. Genna would notice if the bird turned up completely healthy after being in obvious distress, so I leave the other nuisance injuries and climb back up the railing, the bird tucked into my sweatshirt.
Genna coos and fusses over the little thing, suggesting we take him to the biology department and talk to a professor there about his recovery. The professor recommends a veterinarian and so we find ourselves on the city bus, en route to the vet’s office. The pigeon rests in a small box, wrapped in a towel and possibly more comfortable than he’s ever been. A satisfied gleam shines in his eye.
Through the window, the city races by. Genna takes my hand and squeezes. “Thank you,” she says, intertwining our fingers. “I couldn’t bear to see him suffer.” I wish I could take this moment and freeze it — I would place it in an album next to the other moments that I hold close to my heart.
It was on a day much like this one, the late summer heat just beginning to give way, when I first saw Viv. She stood behind her family’s fruit stall at the Inverness Street Market, a small basket of tomatoes in each hand. They were on sale, two for one. Her heart-shaped face was filled with joy, and I could not get her smile out of my head. I went back the next week and the next — my tiny rented room overflowed with tomatoes before I worked up the nerve to talk to her.
She captured me, and I experienced all the wonder and passion that had impelled me to leave sterile Euphoria in the first place. My heart ached. I felt the spark that Kalyx had told me would mean I’d found my one. The Destinies all believe that each human has a one. As so many of their missions are centered around affairs of the heart, they, more than other angels, get a firsthand look at how love grows and changes a person. Kalyx said that when you meet your one, it feels like a cold engine sputtering to life — gears crank and turn, creating motion and energy where before there was nothing but the potential for it. That is what she felt when she met my father. It is what I’d hoped for when I’d left home.
Meeting Viv gave Kalyx’s words new meaning. I felt the slow and steady pulse inside me quicken to a sprint. Everything that had been still sped to a blur, everything neatly arranged became spontaneous and impetuous. It could only be the energy of her soul calling to me. We were in sync, our hearts beating with the same cadence. Her heart recognized me; her soul would soon follow.
Genna’s care and compassion, her gentle nature and virtue, are just as Viv’s were. I squeeze her hand back and hope to never let go.
A small hooded figure in a dark sweatshirt climbs onto the bus at its next stop. A flash of silver rings are visible as the payment ticket is swiped, and my shoulders stiffen. The girl turns to walk down the aisle and I loosen again — it isn’t Maia. I realize I’m clutching Genna’s hand too tightly and slacken my grip.
The girl who isn’t Maia sits next to an elderly couple. I focus on their lined faces, the way the man holds out his arm to steady the woman when the bus makes a jerky turn. The way she pats his hand and links their arms at the elbows. These appear to be souls in sync. Could this be my future with Genna?
Next to me, Genna leans down to check on the bird again, nestled in his little box. The bus rattles over an uneven portion of road, and she slides into me. I unclasp our hands and wrap my arm around her shoulder, pulling her in closer. Her hair smells like watermelons, a bit cloying but cheery.
I steal another glance down the aisle at the girl who isn’t Maia. And try to dampen the part of me that wishes she were.
* * *
I’d forgotten how quiet the nights are here. In the Wasteland, a constant hum of noise fills the air. The wordless moans of the soulless and some other, undefinable sound vibrate through your bones and set your teeth on edge. Like fingernails on a chalkboard, it keeps you unsettled, disconcerted.
Here, everyth
ing stops in the middle of the night when humans sleep, even on an otherwise boisterous college campus. I check in on the girls once I’m sure they’re both sound asleep. Hovering near the ceiling, I use too much of my power to keep as much distance as possible between myself and Genna. My fingers flex with the desire to touch her.
The brush of her hand against mine or the feel of her breath across my cheek as she leans in to share a laugh makes my nerve endings stir. Viv’s raven hair and creamy skin were so different from Genna’s caramel complexion and ever-changing head of bronze hair. Some days it cascades in soft curls, some days it falls in a subdued curtain. I’m amazed how a single soul can shine through no matter what the exterior package. She would be beautiful to me in any form.
Genna’s breath rises and falls softly, her dreams peaceful, in direct opposition to Maia. Across the room, she’s kicked off her covers. One brown leg sticks out, hanging partially off the bed. She doesn’t cry out, she never makes a sound, but her movements are jerky and fitful.
The two girls couldn’t be more different — even their bedspreads are opposite. Genna’s is pink and flowery, matching the theme of the decor on her side of the room. Her bed is a sea of stuffed animals and small, lacy pillows. Framed posters grace the walls, along with photos of her family.
Maia’s half is sparse, ascetic. A plain, sterile blue coverlet. Bare walls. Very few items on the desk or dresser. She’s left such a small footprint, it’s like she scarcely even exists. This distresses me for reasons that aren’t entirely clear. Is it the human emotions overwhelming me or something else?
Genna sighs, a small smile playing upon her lips. Curiosity tugs at me, but I don’t dip into her dreams to assuage it. I leave her the privacy of her slumber. It’s enough to be near her again, to talk and laugh with her again. No part of me has forgotten her.
Maia shivers, grasping for the bedspread blindly in her sleep without reaching it. I’m about to replace it for her when the tempo of her dream changes drastically.
Suddenly her arms and legs thrash as if she’s beating off an attacker. Her head jerks back and forth, straining her neck. Her dream has turned into a nightmare before my eyes.
Without conscious thought, I find myself next to her, sitting on the bed, stroking her hair, trying to soothe her. It isn’t working — she’s too far gone — and, again without thinking, I grasp on to the vibrating tendrils of her dream and slide down into it.
I emerge in a darkened corridor smelling strongly of ammonia. A low greenish light provides the only illumination. Identical doors are spaced evenly on either side. Each has a tiny barred window near the top. A prison, perhaps? The hallway is icy cold, and thunder booms in the distance.
The window in the first door reveals a narrow bed, empty, but with straps attached to the posts. A chair, desk, and dresser are the only other pieces of furniture. The other rooms are identical. The chill in the air burrows beneath my skin, digging arctic fingers into my flesh.
A shriek pierces the eerie silence. Maia! I race down the hall, but make no progress. The farther I go, the longer it becomes. I’m not an experienced dream-walker. Only the Destinies truly excel at it. When I first left Euphoria, thoughts of learning about humans as Kalyx did, through their dreams, spurred me to try it a few times, but it isn’t easy to master. I’ve already forgotten the basic rules of humans’ dreams — mainly that they have no rules.
Maia screams once more, but from farther away. I stop running and focus on her location, willing myself close to her.
A wide, shadowy room unfolds around me. The greenish light with no source reminds me of the drab glow of the Wasteland and paints everything with a sickly palette. In the center, Maia is strapped to a bed, kicking and screaming with all her might. A phalanx of faceless figures in long white coats stands around menacingly. They’re all nearly seven feet tall and tower over the bed.
Her cries propel me forward. I push through the figures to reach her. She’s dressed in a tattered hospital gown. Her hair is longer, not shaved on the sides, disheveled, and her face is painted like a skull, white with black eye sockets and lines for teeth covering her lips.
I call her name as she continues to fight. When I finally get to her side, I reach out, intending to untie the straps restraining her, but a force pushes me back. Maia pauses her struggle, confused, like she’s listening to someone or something.
“Who?” she says, her voice raspy and raw.
“Maia, it’s me,” I call out, reaching for her again, only to be pushed back by an invisible pressure against my chest.
“Caleb?” she says uncertainly. “Natasha! Leave him alone!”
The air in front of me congeals, and a dark mass takes shape. A young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, emerges. Her short hair has been chopped off erratically, and she wields a butcher knife, waving it in front of me like a taunt. Her eyes are bloodshot and empty. A vicious smile reveals brown teeth. With an agility only found in dreams, she leaps on top of Maia’s chest and holds the knife to her neck.
Maia is quiet now, her breath heaving from the weight of the girl.
“What do you want, Natasha?” she whispers.
The girl traces a line on Maia’s neck without piercing the skin. She moves lower, slicing another tear in the thin gown, then drags the knife to Maia’s left arm, suspended above her by the straps. There’s a scar there, a long one reaching from her wrist to her elbow. I haven’t noticed it before, but she’s always entirely covered up. Natasha traces the scar with the tip of the blade and Maia sucks in a breath as if in pain.
Natasha seems so enthralled by her actions, she isn’t paying attention to anything else. I leap into motion, catapulting myself into the girl and knocking her to the ground. The knife clatters out of her grip, but due to dream logic, it’s back a moment later. She is incredibly strong and writhes in my grip. I’m not prepared, and before I know it, she’s pulled her arm free and sliced a line from my shoulder across my chest. Pain radiates from the wound, but I grab hold of both of her wrists and pin her to the ground.
Suddenly, Maia crouches next to me, somehow freed from her restraints. With her painted face, she looks both fierce and fragile. A question sits on the tip of my tongue, more than one, actually, but an enormous boom roars, shaking apart the fabric of this tenuous, warped reality. The floor ripples and quakes. Behind us, all the tall figures have gone. Within my grip, the solid flesh of Natasha’s wrists melts away. She is subsumed in a blaze of black angelfire, its inky flames like tongues lapping at my hands as I pull them back, empty.
“We need to run,” Maia says into my ear. She takes my hand, pulling us both up as an explosion tears the room apart. This is all too familiar to me, running through a shower of debris as the world flies apart. Maia is barefoot but seems to know the path as she leads us into the shadows.
We’re now outside on a dark city street, wind battering us and the sound of destruction following as we try to outrun it. Another roar rends the sky, releasing bitter-smelling rain that burns through my clothes on its way to my skin. The pain is delayed, but when it hits, the knife wound on my chest feels like a tickle in comparison. Pure agony, far worse than the metal that skewered and killed me.
Maia cries out beside me, suffering as well, and I feel the need to protect her. I wrap an arm around her and break the cardinal rule of dream-walking.
We stand in a green valley, the clouds low enough to touch. Rolling hills spread out all around us. The rain burned away most of her gown, leaving strips of fabric which do nothing to cover her. The skin across her chest and torso is angry, puckered with welts. I look the same. Although she must be in pain, she notices my gaze, which has stopped on her breasts, and covers herself with her arms.
I turn away, embarrassed to be caught staring. I point to a small pond a few hundred feet away, but cannot form any words. She follows me silently, then we both divest ourselves of the shreds of our clothing and dip into the cool, refreshing waters.
The sting of the burns disa
ppears, and I find my voice again.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice hits my back as I try to give her a modicum of privacy. “Looks like you might be an Angel of Destiny after all.”
“What I did — it isn’t allowed. The Destinies only dream-walk when they have specific missions. They don’t … save people from nightmares.”
She is quiet for a while, and I hear nothing but the gentle splashing of the water as she dips again.
I imagine the water running across her body. She’s small, perhaps too thin, the bones of her collarbone showing prominently at the base of her neck. I cannot get the sight of her breasts from my mind. The urge to stroke, just to glide the pad of a finger across the tip of her dark nipple. Allow my tongue to lazily sketch a path across her peaks.
I dip my head under the water to clear my thoughts. When I first came here, while aware of all the various functions of the human body, it was still quite an adjustment to experience them for myself. Kalyx had warned me about the carnal urges. In my previous life, I had never given in. Viv had accepted my proposal of marriage before we died, but had been firm in her desire to remain chaste. The twenty-first century, however, is stimulating in ways I hadn’t ever imagined.
I wrangle myself back under control, unable to completely erase thoughts of Maia’s body from my mind, but continuing to try.
“Will you get in trouble?” she asks. I chance a glance back at her. We’re both crouching in the pond with just our heads above the surface.
I put some distance between us and tread water in the deepest part of the tiny pool. I try to make my voice light. “I could be banned from Euphoria, but I already am.”
“So basically, you can break all the rules now?” A small smile breaks through her severe facade. What would it be like to see her face explode in true joy? The garish paint has been washed away, leaving only her face, so fresh and beautiful.
When my hand strokes her cheek, I’m not sure how I got so close again — within touching distance. This is definitely a bad idea. I wait for her to push me away, but she merely closes her eyes and leans into my hand.