Chapter Thirteen The Eclipse #2
She pointed at the bottle, then gestured up.
I took a drink of the liquid, which made me squeeze my eyes shut. I could feel my face shift. My jaw dislocated, then popped back into place, my third eye opened on my forehead before quickly snapping shut.
“Disgusting,” I mumbled, gathering myself. “Go on.”
Her expression was softening, slowly but surely. Who knew great pain of another was such a motivator.
“I would talk to them, and they’d listen,” she said with a shrug. “So I got older, and I realized that this world spares no cruelty for those not in its favor. I was desperate. I asked them, and they showed me.”
“The Peculiars showed you?”
“More like . . . they showed me how to find it within myself. To focus my intention when they opened up to me. It was then that I learned the trade was in intimacy, emotions. I fed them my tears, my stress. They probably ate very well . . .”
She stopped speaking, staring at me.
“Continue.” I took another sip. I held in a gag, my teeth extending and distorting into sharp points before returning to human shape.
This did make her produce a small chime, a quiet laugh.
“Did it scare you?”
“The rituals? The Peculiars?” She laughed at the vagueness. “None of it. When you know that there is always something in the dark, you are never alone. It makes the world much less frightening. It’s much scarier living in a world you cannot rely on.”
“How do you feel about it now?”
She gave me a sideways glance. “The same.”
“I taste a lie.”
“Unnerving, not frightening,” she corrected herself. “Now why are you here?”
“You summoned me.”
“No.” She raised her finger at me. “I only opened the door. You forced your way through. I suspect multiple attempts, by the way you frightened my Peculiars enough for them to close it themselves. I want to know why.”
I sat up, readjusting my position and tucking the bottle by my side. I could tell her the truth . . . just not the part involving her.
“Loneliness.” I repeated her previous answer, albeit a bit more quietly than my previous tone.
She laughed.
“You are cruel.” I threw the couch pillow at her.
She caught it and hugged it tightly, clearly amused, her legs dangling off the chair as she relished the reaction. “How does some unknowable creature like yourself get lonely?”
“Limitless sentience is numbing. Knowing everything means to discover nothing. Knowing things isn’t the same as experiencing them. Senses and emotions aren’t needed when you are everywhere, all at once.” I stopped myself from explaining further, since it wouldn’t be something she could understand.
“Is this the first time you’ve found a door big enough for you to pass through?” Her stare was different this time, curious.
I snapped my fingers and pointed at her. “There you have it.”
“So you owe me?”
“Owe is a strong word, but I am appreciative.”
“What did you come to experience?” She rested her chin on the pillow, her arms wrapping it to her chest.
I hesitated to say; it might have been too premature to proclaim. Or maybe it was because my goals would become real and an end would be on the horizon, if I decided on it firmly.
“Something new” was the answer I gave her.
There was a pleasant silence between us. The candles were burning short, the wax collecting into the holders.
“Dorian and I met when we were children,” she said suddenly, an answer to my first question.
This may have been the first freely offered answer from her.
“We were not well off, grew up on the same block. We married for convenience, for more benefits when he joined the army, hopefully to keep him from the draft. But he has never done me wrong; he was my best friend. There is not another soul like him”—her eyes flicked to look at me one more time—“not even the ones who mimic him.”
The way she spoke of him was like spiced sugar, a refined sweetness that could only come from carefully curated layers of memories. An extract of every laughter shared, the nights of comfort in each other’s arms, the trauma that held them together like armor.
Then there was the faintest tinge of animosity.
“What was the first miracle you asked for?” We had come this far; I thought to try one more time.
“I asked them to bring him home,” she whispered. “They had lost contact with his unit. They said they didn’t want to keep up our hopes of finding them.”
“And you got him back?”
“That time, yes.” Her eyes were shining, then she rubbed her hands over them.
With every word, I could feel the effects on every tendon, every nerve. My muscles unwound, the organs inside me operated with a bit more ease; even the tension in my jaw loosened.
“May I retire now?”
I blinked a few times, forgetting where I was.
“Of course,” I said, clearing my throat.
“Good night.” Her voice was but a whisper, but she did not leave in any rush. If anything, she lingered.
For someone stricken by loneliness, she seemed to seclude herself quite often. But it made me wonder about the next time I would see her, or the next.
Small rewards, like earning the trust of some delicate thing that could ruin itself at the slight stress of being cornered. I sensed that type of desperation on her. Not the hopeless type, but the fight in her. She was just tired.
Until next time, I suppose.