Blackthorn

Chapter Thirty-Seven

THIRTY-SEVEN

MAVEN

“May? May, can you hear me? Wake up, love. Wake up!”

Auntie E’s voice floats to me as if from a great distance. It’s muffled, but I can still detect the note of worry it carries.

Opening my eyes, I find her leaning over me, gripping my shoulder, shaking me awake. Davina stands nervously behind her with a hand at her throat, her eyes wide as she stares at me.

I’m lying on my back in a bed. Morning light spills through the windows, painting the room in gauzy shades of pearl and gold. Outside, the sky is crystalline blue. A lone songbird warbles happily somewhere beyond sight.

“What happened? Where am I?”

“You’re home, love. You’re safe. You were having a nightmare, screaming bloody murder to the moon.”

I’m weak and disoriented, my pulse fast and my respiration shallow. Auntie E presses the backs of her fingers to my forehead, clucking in concern.

“You’re running a high fever, May. No, don’t try to sit up. You’re ill.” She turns to Auntie D. “Would you please bring up some tea?”

Nodding, Davina hurries from the room.

I moisten my dry lips and whisper, “Where’s Bea?”

“In the greenhouse with Q.”

I think of a creature with horns and wings and panic rises in my throat, as hot and stinging as bile. “Greenhouse?”

Auntie D nods. “The door blew open with the wind last night, knocked a few pots over. Don’t worry about that now, love. How do you feel?”

“Nauseous. Lightheaded. Dizzy.”

Confused, too, but I don’t say that aloud. I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t a dream and the dream wasn’t reality. Everything feels artificial, as if I’ve walked onto the set of a television show. Even the cheerful sunlight seems fake, with a hard, unnatural edge to it that stings my eyes.

She nods, clucking her tongue again. “You’ve caught a bug. Best thing to do is stay in bed and stay hydrated. What you need is rest and fluids. I’ll make a nice batch of mushroom soup.”

She pats my shoulder, then sweeps out of the room and closes the door behind her.

It shuts with an ominous click that sounds like the bolt of a cell sliding into place.

I push myself up to a sitting position, taking a moment to let the room stop spinning before I grab my phone from the nightstand. With shaking hands, I navigate to my texts and scroll through them.

The text from Ronan has disappeared. There’s no record of our phone call, either.

Last night didn’t happen. He didn’t fuck me in the greenhouse or sprout a massive pair of wings or guzzle his own cum straight out of my ass like French wine from a bottle.

It was all a fever dream.

As I’m staring at the phone’s screen, I realize something else is missing.

The text I sent to Ezra after he fled the alley isn’t there.

The panic that had been buzzing around my ears settles deeper into my body, invading my cells until I’m frantic and unable to catch my breath.

The calls I made to my work are also missing from my call list. When I check my email, those are nonexistent, too.

I sit on the edge of the bed, clammy with fear, my pulse racing, until Auntie D returns holding a steaming mug of tea.

She spots me and pulls up short. “Holy basil, darling, you look ghastly. If you’re not better by this afternoon, we’ll call the doctor.”

She takes the phone from my hand, sets it back onto the nightstand, and gives me the mug of tea, helping me hold it until I’ve got it steady.

I stare down into its swirling golden depths for a moment before looking up into her face.

“Did Ezra come by this morning?”

She furrows her brow. “Ezra?”

No. Oh God no. This can’t be happening to me.

My voice thin, I say, “You met him yesterday morning. He came by and you met him, you and Auntie E both. Blond hair. Navy blazer. Thin-rimmed glasses.”

She gazes at me in silence for a long moment, a crease of worry forming between her eyebrows. “Drink your tea and rest, darling. We’ll talk when you feel better.”

My hands shake so hard, the tea drips down my chin when I try to drink it. Auntie D coos in reassurance and assists me again, cupping her hands around my own so I don’t spill another drop.

I’m so thirsty and dehydrated, I drain the entire mug in one go.

It pleases her. She beams at me, taking back the empty mug and smoothing her hand over my hair.

“There, now,” she says soothingly. “You’ll feel much better soon. Just rest, darling. We’ll check on you later.”

The tea left a chalky, bitter aftertaste on my tongue. My head is pounding again, and the nausea is getting worse. I close my eyes to fight the way the room is tilting.

“Where’s Bea?”

“She’s perfectly fine, darling. Don’t you worry. Don’t you worry a single hair on your head.”

She leaves the room again, humming a cheerful tune on the way out.

When the door has closed behind her, I attempt to stand. I sway unsteadily but manage to shuffle into the bathroom. When I flip on the overhead light, I gasp at my reflection in the mirror.

My skin has the pallor of a corpse. Dark circles ring both eye sockets. My hair is a rat’s nest of knots and tangles. I look as if I’ve been sick for a month, not a single night.

I splash cold water onto my face, hoping it will wake me up, but leaning over the sink makes the dizziness worsen. When I stand straight, I almost fall, grabbing the towel bar just in time to avoid keeling over.

My head throbbing, I use the toilet and shuffle back toward the bed. I stop when I spot my handbag on the dresser.

My heart pounding, I cross the room, open the bag, and look inside.

The talon is missing.

Was it ever there?

I stare into the empty bag as the songbird outside warbles its innocent song and a dark worm of fear starts to consume me.

Early in the evening, a doctor arrives at Blackthorn Manor.

He’s young and fit, quite handsome in pale-blue scrubs as Auntie D leads him into the room after a soft knock. I must have fallen asleep again, because I remember nothing between the time I checked my phone and now.

An empty soup bowl and a spoon lie on the nightstand beside the bed. I have no memory of eating that, either, but I must have. My mouth tastes faintly of mushrooms.

Speaking in the low, soothing tone one uses with crying children or the terminally ill, Davina says, “May, this is Dr. Hansen. He came as soon as he could. He’s very good at his job, so just be completely honest with him, and we’ll get you better. I’ll give you two some privacy.”

When she leaves, Dr. Hansen pulls up a chair, sets it next to the bed, places the brown leather satchel he’s holding onto the floor, then smiles at me.

“Hi, May. I understand you’re not feeling well. Why don’t you tell me your symptoms?”

I feel resistant to that, but it’s probably just my usual rebelliousness. I sit up straighter against the pillows. “I didn’t think doctors still made house calls.”

“One of the benefits of being a small-town doctor is that I’m not overwhelmed by the volume of patients like a big-city doctor is, so I can give more individualized care.”

I suspect the “individualized care” he’s been giving Auntie D has more to do with his appearance here than anything else.

I didn’t miss the fleeting glance of lust the two exchanged before she excused herself. This must be the doctor she told me about before Bea and I arrived, the one with the “stamina.”

“I think I’ve caught some kind of aggressive bug.”

“Davina says you’ve been feverish. Any other symptoms?”

I grudgingly admit the list. “Nausea. Nosebleeds. Headaches. Dizziness. Hallucinations.”

When he quirks his brows in surprise, I hurry to amend the last thing so I don’t sound insane. “I meant dreams. Vivid dreams.”

He seems relieved, nodding and smiling. “Okay. That’s not uncommon with a fever. Anything else?”

Thinking of the missing emails, texts, and phone calls, I feel ridiculous. “I seem to be forgetful lately.”

“How long has that been going on?”

“A few days. Maybe a week?” My laugh is small and nervous. “The days are blurring together.”

“What medications are you taking?”

“None.”

“Any history of alcohol or drug abuse?”

“No.”

“Have you been diagnosed with any medical conditions?”

“No. I’ve always been healthy as a horse. I’ve never even had a cavity.”

“Allergies?”

“None.”

He reaches into his satchel and produces a stethoscope. “Do you mind if I listen to your heart?”

“Go ahead.”

He stands, pressing the round metal resonator against my chest first, then onto my back between my shoulder blades, listening in his earpieces for several moments at each place.

This is when I realize I’m dressed in pajamas, not the robe I had on last night when I went downstairs for the whiskey I never ended up getting because I went into the greenhouse to have my pussy wrecked by a Ronan-shaped monster.

I have no idea when reality ended yesterday and the smut version of Alice in Wonderland began.

Dr. Hansen instructs me to inhale deeply then exhale. After another moment of listening to the inner workings of my chest, he says, “There are no signs of congestion in your lungs, and your heart sounds fine. Let’s take your blood pressure.”

He does, assuring me it’s normal, then takes my temperature with a digital reader.

“Ninety-eight-point-seven on the nose. If you did have a fever, it broke.”

I’m feeling more and more ridiculous by the moment.

“Let’s have a look at your throat and ears.”

He gently palpates the lymph nodes in the sides of my neck, then makes me open my mouth so he can peer inside with a small mirror. Satisfied there, he looks into both ears with an otoscope.

“Any vomiting or diarrhea?”

“No.”

“Any surgeries within the last year?”

“No.”

He sits back down in his chair and smiles. He has very appealing dimples and sympathetic hazel eyes. I can see why Auntie D likes him.

“How’s your stress level been lately?”

My laugh is small and wry. “On a scale of one to ten, forty-seven.”

He nods understandingly. “My condolences about your grandmother.”

I don’t ask if he means her death or subsequent disappearance. “Thank you.”

We gaze at each other in silence as I wonder if he knows about Pinecrest Cemetery and its missing inhabitants. The news must be all over town by now.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“If you’re asking if I have suicidal ideation, the answer is no.”

His small smile is chagrined. “Was I that obvious? I’ll have to work on my bedside manner.”

I wave that off. “I know you have to ask. So what’s the verdict?”

“I think you were right about catching a virus. Stay hydrated and rest. You should feel much better in a day or two. If not, come to my office Monday, and we’ll draw blood and run further tests.”

“What about the nosebleeds? I haven’t had those before.”

“It could be something as simple as the air in the house. It’s noticeably dry, and all those herbs hanging everywhere can be irritants to the nasal passages. Or it could be smoke, dust, even strong odors. Try a saline nasal rinse. That should help.”

When I sigh heavily and sag back against the pillows, he says, “Would you like me to give you something to help you sleep?”

“Sure. Have a lobotomy handy?”

He chuckles. “I was thinking more along the lines of sleeping pills.”

When I hesitate, he says, “You don’t have to take them, but at least you have an option. I’ll leave enough for a week.”

He removes a small, unlabeled amber vial from his satchel and sets it on the nightstand. I’m surprised I don’t need a prescription for those. Maybe it’s Auntie D’s influence.

Maybe we have a barter-based family account, and she’s paying with blowjobs.

“Thank you,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “I appreciate you coming over.”

He grabs his bag and rises. “It’s no trouble at all. Feel better. And remember, if you don’t, just give my office a call, and we’ll get you in for more testing.”

After he leaves, I sit in deep thought. In a few moments, I become aware of a dull hum.

At first, I think it’s electronic, but as I listen longer, I realize the sound isn’t constant. It dips and rises in the irregular pattern made by many fast-beating wings, like the drone of a hive of bees.

Frowning, I rise from bed and stand in the middle of the room, trying to discern the origin of the noise. But it’s as if the whole room is producing it, the floor, walls, and ceiling. Growing louder and closer by the moment, it’s creepy to the point of making my skin crawl.

Stay calm. There’s a wasp’s nest in the eaves, that’s all. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

The sound grows louder until it’s a maddening buzz.

I move toward the door, looking nervously around, but I see nothing unusual. Then I catch a glimpse of movement in the corner of my eye and spin toward the bathroom.

Even from across the room, I can clearly see the mirror above the sink and the grotesque image reflected in it.

A seething mass of oily black flies covers my entire body. Except for my eyes, which are clouded over with a layer of white, like something that died long ago.

When I open my mouth in a silent scream, the flies swarm down my throat, bringing with them the gagging flavor of decay. The stench hits me next, filling my nose with the sickly sweet smell of putrescence. Guts and gore. An abattoir.

I stumble back in horror, waving my hands around my face in panic, but the flies follow me. I catch glimpses of gray rotting skin bubbling with maggots as the swarm parts briefly before descending again to fill the gaps.

The hum swells to a deafening roar, reverberating inside my skull.

Staggering over to the door, I throw it open and lurch into the hallway, only to crash right into a startled Auntie E.

“You’re up! That’s a good sign. How are you feeling, love? What did the doctor say?”

The buzzing sound has vanished.

When I look down at my hands, there’s not a single fly in sight.

From somewhere distant, I hear myself say, “He says I’m fine. Everything’s fine. There’s nothing the matter with me at all.”