Orion's Kiss

by Claire Luana

  But my night is not restful.

  It’s full of dreams—being swept out into the ocean by a powerful current, battling Zeus and his lackeys. Reaching Olympus to open the book, only to find that the key is gone. My subconscious is a master at inventing fears I haven’t even thought of yet.

  I tumble through them all until I find myself standing in a throne room. The room orients around me, coming into focus. Tall marble pillars march in parallel lines, the floor inset with delicate mosaic scenes of the gods. The ceiling soars above us, painted with colorful frescoes of the bright Grecian sky. This isn’t a dream. It’s a vision. Then I realize the nature of my thoughts. Us? Who’s us? I’m alone in this room, yet I know I’m not. Ryan’s here too. Somewhere. Or he’s supposed to be.

  “Ryan?” I call out. My voice echoes, swallowed by the cavernous space.

  As I scan the room for any sign of him, my eyes catch on something out of place. A boot—sticking out from behind a pillar. No, not a boot. A booted foot.

  “Ryan!” I scream as I run for it, desperate to see, yet terrified at what’s waiting for me. The dichotomy steals my breath.

  I skid to a halt on the polished tile floor, and a moan escapes me. “No, no, no!” I fall to my knees beside Ryan, my hands fluttering about his face.

  He lies in a pool of burgundy blood. A jagged wound on his forearm gapes at me, and something about it looks animal—savage. Like he’s been mauled. More blood blooms on his shoulder and thigh. His blue eyes stare vacantly skyward, his mouth slightly agape.

  The heat of a tear streaks down my face, dripping off my chin. “What happened?” I whisper, taking one of his hands in mine.

  He’s cold—stiff—but I ignore the unpleasant sensation. His forearm is slashed with wounds, too, and I examine them. They look like puncture marks.

  “What did this to you?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. My heart keens within me at the prospect of him being gone—leaving me alone in this place. I see this future and I don’t even know if we broke the curse. What if by going into Olympus, the only thing we accomplish is getting Ryan killed?

  I reach up gently and close his eyes, my fingertips lingering on his cheek. Feeling against the feathers of his long lashes, the prickly stubble on his cheek. Things I found myself wanting to do in life, but I would only get to do in death. I lean forwards slowly and press a soft kiss to his lips. A tear drips off my nose, shimmering like a diamond on his pale skin. “Goodbye.”

  I move to stand and jerk awake, the sensation of being ripped out of my vision throwing off my equilibrium. The room spins around me, and I find my sheet is drenched. I pull my other pillow towards me and curl around it, releasing a muffled sob. Ryan is going to die. We need to abort this whole sordid business. I can’t ask him to sacrifice himself to break the curse. The irony is not lost on me. Two days ago, a vision of Ryan’s death would have filled me with powerful relief. Now, my mind races for a way to stop it.

  I curse the Fates. God, they’re such bitches! Then a thought strikes me. If the Olympians have faded away, are the Fates gone too? Have I been pissed at a trio of old ladies who don’t even exist anymore? When it’s all just random chance? No. I reject the idea. The Fates aren’t gods, after all, not like Zeus and Chronos. Besides, the orchestration of my misery is too perfect. There’s got to be some power up there pulling the strings.

  My stomach rumbles. Guess that pad thai didn’t stay with me too long. I wipe my eyes and sit up. It’s only 10:30. I’ve hardly been in bed for an hour.

  I pad downstairs, hoping to prowl the kitchen for a snack. There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep with my mind racing like it is. Mom and Dad are curled up on the couch, her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulder. The news is on in the background, the volume low. I can’t decide if it’s cute or sickening how they seem gravitate towards each other when I’m not looking. Like they don’t want me to know they still love each other.

  “Can’t sleep, sweetie?” Mom looks over her shoulder as I open the refrigerator, grabbing some Greek yogurt.

  “Bad dream,” I offer.

  That alarms both my parents, and my dad puts the TV on mute. “Need to talk about it?” he asks. Back when I was first getting my visions, I would be pretty distraught after them. I don’t blame my parents for having a bit of PTSD on the subject of my dream life.

  “It’s okay.” I shake my head as I retrieve the box of granola and pour it into a bowl.

  They look skeptical.

  “Really, I’m fine,” I insist. For a moment, I let myself daydream about what they’d say if I told them the truth. About everything. My seer abilities, past lives. Ryan, the curse. The scythe. But I worry they’d put me away. When you grow up, you seem to lose your ability to believe in anything at all out of the ordinary. This would be no exception. I can’t risk it, not when I’m so close. Maybe on their deathbeds or something.

  I sink onto the other end of the couch, stirring my granola and yogurt. I’d grabbed what was left of the blueberries, too.

  Mom smiles at me. “Maybe we should go away for a weekend, just the three of us,” she says. “Out to the coast maybe?”

  “Sounds great.” I manage a smile. A face on the TV catches my eye, and I freeze, spoon halfway to my mouth. “Hey, turn that up.”

  My dad unmutes the TV and the news anchor’s serious voice fills the living room. “…passed away today after nearly drowning in Willamette River, near her family home. Medical examiners have indicated that the cause of Melanie’s death is currently unknown…” The rest of the words are lost to me. A roaring sound fills my ears, a numbness overtaking me.

  “Sweetie?”

  A hand touches my shoulder and I jerk, my eyes focusing on my mom.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “I know her,” I manage.

  “Really?” Dad asks. “Didn’t she live in Corvallis?”

  “Track,” I manage. My god. Melanie—Alcyone is dead. Even though we did everything right—we saved her. Somehow, she died anyway. My despair is heavy within me, pulling me down like a weight. The curse is ironclad. They always die. I knew that. That was why I’d set out to kill Ryan in the first place. Idiot. Why had I let myself hope?

  A calm certainty settles over me.

  “Poor Mer,” my mom says. “You’ve had a hard week.” She doesn’t say it, but I know she’s thinking of Electra, who died in the car accident.

  I shake my head, summoning my composure. “I didn’t know her well. It’s just sad,” I say. “Would it be okay if Zoe and I go camping next weekend? Somewhere close. I think it would help me clear my head to get away. Have some fun.”

  “Nature is the best cure,” Dad says. “I think it’s a great idea.”

  Mom looks at him and I can tell she’s less thrilled with the idea of me going off unsupervised. But Dad’s already spoken, and one thing they don’t do is contradict each other in front of me.

  “Sure, sweetie.” Mom reaches out and strokes my curls. “Camping’s a great idea. Somewhere close.”

  “Thanks.” I settle into Mom’s side, and we’re all three nestled into each other. I’m struck, not for the first time, by how glad I am that people can’t read each other’s thoughts. Because Zoe and I won’t be camping nearby, and we won’t be alone. We’ll be headed to Mount Shasta. And then, Olympus.

  Chapter 25

  The trip comes together fairly effortlessly, actually.

  I spent much of the ride home from Sibyll’s house planning how the hell I was going to get to Mount Shasta without my parents knowing. The only thing I came up with was the camping trip with Zoe. Plus, the thought of being alone with Ryan overnight again makes my stomach squeeze with excitement and nerves. I don’t need that kind of distraction right now, especially after what I’ve seen. Getting romantically involved with Ryan will only make things more complicated. And harder, when it all goes to hell.

  Zoe and I went for a run together on Sunday, and I filled her in on all the deets of the tr
ip to see the sibyl. Well, almost all the deets. I didn’t tell her about Melanie dying. And I didn’t tell her about my vision. I’m not sure why I kept those two pieces from her. I normally told her everything. But she was getting deep enough in this that it was starting to involve her too. She knew Ryan. I didn’t think she could regard his death as dispassionately as before. I didn’t want to make it harder for her.

  Zoe was, of course, thrilled at the prospect of a camping trip to Shasta. When the text came in from Ryan saying Brandon was in for the trip, her excited squeal practically blew my eardrums.

  Ryan, Brandon, Zoe, and I set up a group text chain to prep for the trip. By some miracle, none of us have games or meets on Saturday, so we plan on leaving Friday night and returning Sunday. The drive is less than four hours one way, but we don’t know how long it’ll take us to find the entrance to the Byways or how long we’ll need in Olympus. We want to give ourselves plenty of time.

  Every time I see a text pop up from Ryan, I’m filled with giddy excitement—and, closely following on its heels, a sinking worry. I find myself missing Ryan and wanting to see him. I can’t imagine the thought of him being gone for good. Never again seeing his rare but precious smile. The callouses on his palms. How he fills out his flannel shirt. I bury my face in my hands and let out a garbled cry. God, this sucks.

  Brandon sidles up to me in history on Thursday and passes me a note. He looks around surreptitiously, to be sure no one is listening. No one is supposed to know that the four of us are camping together. Things in this school travel at the speed of light, and I can’t risk something accidentally making its way back to my mom.

  “What’s this?” I ask, opening it.

  “It’s a suggested shopping list and meal plan for the trip,” Brandon explains. “I’m open to suggestions, but I thought I’d get the ball rolling.”

  I scan it, my eyes opening wide. Breakfasts include: Pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Lunches are sandwiches with multiple meat and cheese options (havarti and pepper jack? Who is this guy?), and our two dinners will be burgers and fajitas. He even has snacks, beverages and desserts (s’mores, obvi) on here!

  I look at him in disbelief. “Never, in all my years, have I encountered a member of the male species who actually plans ahead. This list might qualify as a genuine miracle.”

  He laughs. “We Cook men take camping extremely seriously. And there are two things that will make or break a camping trip. The food and the fire.”

  “I’m prepared to be astounded,” I say as the teacher comes in and tells us to crack our books to page 148. We’ve graduated from the Spanish-American War and are now talking about the Industrial Revolution. “We’ll take breakfast and lunch; you guys take dinner, snacks, and fire fixings?”

  Brandon nods, his eyes bright. He’s excited for this trip.

  I force a smile, trying not to think about how this might be his last trip with his best friend.

  The door opens and my mom appears, her red curls down around her shoulders. She crosses and speaks quickly with Mrs. Washburn, whose eyes slide to me. “Meriah?” she says. “You’re needed in the office.”

  My face heats and I shove my stuff into my backpack. What the hell is Mom thinking, coming to summon me herself? I’ve done everything I can to distance us at school.

  Brandon offers me a supportive smile as I walk up the row, the stares of my classmates burning into my back.

  “What?” I round on Mom as soon as the door closes behind us.

  She wraps her ivory cashmere cardigan around her like a shield. “Deputy Romano would like to speak with you again. He’s in my office.”

  “Oh.” My stomach sinks into the floor. “What about?”

  “The accident, I would presume.” Mom falls into step beside me, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor of the hallway. “You sure there’s nothing else you remember?”

  “Nothing,” I offer, wracking my brain, thinking of all the clues the deputy could have found to give us up. Our phones, the cabin, Ryan’s camping story…

  I’m not ready when my mom opens the door for me. She doesn’t follow me in. I look over my shoulder, feeling exposed. I may not want her within ten feet of me most days at school, but she’s still my mom. Her presence imparts a certain comfort.

  “I asked your mom to wait outside. So we can talk alone.” Deputy Romano smiles.

  “Okay.” I sink into the chair opposite him. “Do you have a lead on the hit-and-run driver?”

  “We do,” he says, the words chilling me to my core. “The lab found some paint fragments from the other car. They’re from an ochre matte paint. It hasn’t been made in about twenty-five years.”

  I blink, taking in his words. Twenty-five years. So he knows it’s an old car. Like Ryan drives. And Ryan’s truck is red. Or ochre, whatever the hell kind of color that is.

  “There’s also no record of Ryan staying at the campground he indicated. The camp host doesn’t recall him.”

  I shrug. “There must be tons of people who come through those campgrounds.”

  “In April?” the deputy asks. “Not exactly high season.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Meriah, we’ll be getting a warrant to inspect Ryan’s truck. If we find anything…it just seems odd that you were all the way out there. It’s a far bike ride from town, especially at that time of night. It would make a lot more sense if you were riding with someone.”

  I realize what he means. He thinks I was in the car with Ryan.

  He leans in, his face earnest. Concerned. Despite the threat he poses, I can’t find myself disliking him. He’s just doing his job. “Peer pressure is powerful. I wouldn’t blame you if you were getting pressure from someone to stay quiet. But this is important. It’s not your job to protect anyone. Okay?”

  I nod, summoning my earnest face. “I was on my bike. I didn’t even know who Ryan Kearney was that night. I swear.” These things are true.

  Deputy Romano searches my face. I don’t know what he sees there, but I’m not going to cave. I’m not going to be the one who exposes Ryan. Finally, he stands. “Okay. Thanks.”

  I replay my conversation with Deputy Romano about seventeen hundred times that day, and I keep reaching the same conclusion. There’s not a damn thing I can do. We still need to break the curse. If anything, this weekend’s trip is all the more urgent. I’m not sure what good will come of worrying everyone by telling them how close the police are to Ryan. Figuring a way to get Ryan out of Olympus alive feels like a far more pressing concern. So I swallow my worries and say nothing. Yet another secret I’m keeping from Zoe. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, and one I don’t like one bit.

  Zoe and I drive to the store Thursday night to get our supplies for the trip. Zoe is the keeper of Brandon’s list, which I think she’s examined about thirty-eight times. I struggle to act normal. Everything’s totally normal.

  “I think you should ask him out,” I tell Zoe as we pull into the Safeway parking lot.

  “Ask him out?” she scoffs. “Are you insane?”

  “What—it’s not the 1800s anymore. Girls can ask guys out.”

  “But what if he says no? What if he just thinks of me as a friend and I totally humiliate myself?”

  “That is a possibility—” I say jokingly, but at her pained expression, I relent. “Zo—he’s a good guy. If he’s not interested, he’d just tell you that. He wouldn’t be weird about it.”

  “How do you know?” she asks as we both get out of the car. I grab a lonely shopping cart that’s been abandoned in the row, wheeling it towards the entrance. “Would a guy who could make a list like that be a dick about a girl liking him?” I point to said list.

  She smiles. “No.”

  “Maybe he really likes you. Maybe you could be with him—but the only way you’ll find out is asking. Isn’t it worse not knowing?”

  “No. Because not asking means I can continue to entertain my fantasies of him sweeping me off my feet with flowers and a p
rom invite.”

  I roll my eyes. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Zoe.”

  “I think the saying is, nothing ventured, nothing desperately crushed under the boot of one Brandon Cook.”

  We push through the automatic doors into the store. “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes—”

  “Meriah?” a male voice says, and I snap to attention. It’s Ryan Kearney, standing before me in all his teenage glory with a cart full of grocery bags. And sweet Jesus, his adorable grandma at his side.

  “Hey, Ryan,” I manage to respond.

  Zoe waves.

  “Doing a little grocery shopping?” Ryan asks innocently.

  I push my lips together to keep a smile from my lips. This feels very illicit—the secret we share—that we’re both shopping for our clandestine boy-girl camping trip.

  “I guess Thursday’s the night for it,” I reply.

  Ryan’s grandma pushes forwards. I see a faint resemblance between them—the intense blue of their eyes, the shape of their noses. Even now, she’s very pretty. “Is this the Meriah I’ve been hearing so much about? I’m Ryan’s grandmother, Eloise.”

  “Gran.” Ryan’s face flushes red, and I grin. I like her. I shake her offered hand.

  “Yep. I’m Meriah, and this is my friend Zoe.”

  Zoe shakes too. “We go to school with Brandon,” she says, as if explaining how we know Ryan. Though, really, it’s just that Zoe’s brain is made up of eight-five percent Brandon Cook.

  “Very nice to meet you both.” Eloise smiles at us, and I see similarities in their smile, too. My heart twists painfully. “Ryan’s lucky to have a good friend like Brandon.” She pats him on his shoulder.

  “I think they’re lucky to have each other,” I say, and Ryan’s face softens at my words.

  “Well, we’ve got milk to get in the fridge.” Ryan’s grandmother gracefully excuses them from this strangest of conversations. “Nice to meet you both.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” Zoe and I say in chorus. I give Ryan a wave, letting my eyes drink in the sight of him. “See you later.” Though see you tomorrow would be far more accurate. Tomorrow, when we undertake a foolishly dangerous mission that will likely lead to your death.