Chapter Sixteen
E zra says he needs time to think, and I need time to rest. My head is still spinning from everything that’s happened tonight, so I head home with his promise to alert me to any changes in Dorian’s behavior and reconvene on Monday with a plan to move forward.
After being near Dorian once—feeling him, touching him, being held by him—I am empty without him. For the rest of the weekend I ache for him, alone in my house. Sometimes I crawl into bed and close my eyes and try to imagine him here, his body curled around mine. It soothes me in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.
Dorian. My Dorian. How could I have forgotten him? Now he plagues my thoughts like a craving. Like an obsession. He is mine and I am his, two halves of one heart, and it is painful to have been so close only to be ripped away from one another again.
It doesn’t matter how he’s changed, or what he’s done. There is nothing he could do that I wouldn’t be capable of forgiving. I am incomplete without him. I need him back, and I am willing to do whatever it takes to ensure it happens.
As I drift off to sleep, I feel a weight at my back. Fingers combing through my hair. Breath on my neck. It’s almost like he’s really here.
* * *
Making it through Sunday, knowing Dorian is in the cell waiting for me, is agonizing. I pace around the house, keeping myself busy with dusting and spot cleaning. It does little to calm the emotions that stir beneath my skin like an angry sea.
But my feelings aren’t the only thing that have become volatile. I’m not sure if it was my contact with Dorian that awoke something in me, or if my emotions are doing it, but my once-subdued powers are roiling just beneath the surface now. When I reach for the duster, it leaps into my hand. When I try to make tea, the mug cracks in my hands, pieces of porcelain floating around me before tumbling to the floor.
Flashes of memory haunt me along with the surges of power. I see Dorian everywhere in fleeting recollections. Memories of him sitting on the counter beside me while I cook dinner, chasing me through the hallways in play, sleeping next to me in bed.
But that one important night is still a giant hole in my memory.
As I climb into bed, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember. I search my mind for any scraps about that night. My mother and father killed in front of me…how does one forget something like that? I had to have seen something, felt something, heard something.
When I strain, I can hear a whisper of something, just out of reach—
Step. Scraaape.
I blink, and suddenly, sunlight is streaming through the window.
“What?” I whisper. I raise a hand to rub my face and stop at the sight of dried blood coating my fingers. When I look down at myself, my once-white nightgown is a mess of rusty gore. I lurch out of bed and rush to the bathroom.
I pause at the sight of myself in the mirror: ghastly pale, with blood crusted over my nose and lips. As nauseating as it is, it floods me with relief.
A nosebleed. Just another nosebleed.
Still, I tremble through my shower, unable to banish the cold from my bones.
* * *
Ezra is seated at the table in the observation room when I arrive at the MRF on Monday, one long leg crossed over the other as he eyes his notes. But when he looks up, his hands go still halfway through the act of flipping a page.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nuzzle my nose deeper into my scarf. God, I hate the cold. “I’m fine.” Except that I woke up as exhausted as though I hardly slept, even though I was out like a light. “How is Dorian?”
“His readings are holding steady,” he says. “He hasn’t made an appearance yet today, though.”
I walk to the window and press my fingertips to the glass. Dorian flickers into visibility, sitting on the edge of the bed with all four arms folded over his chest and his lanky legs stretched out in front of him.
“There he is,” I say, tapping a finger against the glass. Dorian stares at me, head tilting to one side, unreadable behind his mask.
“Hi,” I breathe.
His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I shake my head, but still, I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
But then Dorian’s gaze slides to Ezra at the desk next to me, and his eyes darken. He points at Ezra and then draws a finger across his own throat.
My heart stops. Is he saying that Ezra is a threat? But…when I was in the cell, Dorian pushed me into Ezra’s arms. Surely he wouldn’t have done that if he saw Ezra as dangerous.
I remember the crayon’s scribbling— MINE MINE MINE— and suspect this acting out is because of something far more mundane: he’s not used to sharing my attention. It was always just the two of us, back in the day.
“Stop that,” I whisper to him.
“What’s he doing?” Ezra asks, glancing up from his notes.
“Being rude,” I mutter. Then I shift over to glance at his notebook, though I can’t make much of his scribbled cursive. “Have you thought more about our next steps?” I’m nauseous at the thought of trying another hypnosis session, but if Ezra thinks that I’m the key to helping Dorian, then I’ll brave it.
“Right.” Ezra sets his notebook aside and gestures for me to sit across the table from him. “So, I have a theory. As you know, I’ve been struggling from the beginning to figure out what exactly Dorian is . Sometimes he behaves like a ghost. Sometimes he doesn’t. I’ve spent a lot of time studying ghosts, classifying them, and I’ve never seen a haunting that behaves like he does.”
I’ve never cared much about what Dorian is. All I care about is him being by my side. But maybe Ezra can offer insight into how to help him, so I listen.
“I think when you first met him, he was a poltergeist,” Ezra says. “He was a child. He relived the moment of his death every night.” I shiver at the reminder, casting a sad glance toward Dorian’s cell. “But then he met you. That’s when he got the mask, the four arms. He started to grow and change, which should be impossible for a ghost. He was no longer an echo of the past. He became something else. Something unique.”
I nod. It makes sense, especially given what I’ve seen in my memories. As time went on, Dorian became stronger, more solid.
“So maybe I just need to spend time with him again?” I ask, stomach fluttering in nervous hope.
“I think it’s more than that,” Ezra says. “It shouldn’t be possible for a human to affect a spirit like that. But…you and I both have some experience with impossible things.”
He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. Power sparks between us.
“I think your abilities are the key,” he says, lowering his voice. “That’s what brought him back from the brink the other night. It’s what stopped him from reenacting his death, too. If you can learn to control them…”
That hopeful flutter in my stomach turns to an anxious twist. I swallow past a suddenly dry throat. Ezra is looking at me expectantly, but despite his enthusiasm, my stomach churns with dread. I’ve spent my entire life trying to subdue my powers, not control them.
“I—” I pull my hands into my lap and stare at them. “I don’t know, Ezra. And isn’t our goal to prove his innocence? I can’t make him stronger just so he can spend his existence in that cell; it’s not fair to him.”
“I suspect your abilities are linked to your memory problems too,” Ezra says. “I think you’re blocking your own mind. Hurting yourself inadvertently when you go too deep into the hypnosis. Again, I think learning to control your abilities is the key to everything.”
It’s just a theory, but it makes sense. Still, the thought of using my powers intentionally makes me feel as though I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff. If I embrace that side of myself, will I ever be able to pretend to be normal again?
Plus, if the MRF finds out, we’ll have even bigger problems. I could end up locked in the cell next to Dorian’s instead of walking free with him.
“It’s your choice,” Ezra says. “But I think that controlling your abilities could help both you and Dorian. You are what brought him back. I think you can make him even stronger and protect yourself enough to find the truth in your memories.” He looks at me. “Plus, Daisy…you deserve to live your life without being afraid of what you’re capable of.”
I think, again, of the looming question of that night I can’t remember. I think of the table moving that day I couldn’t suppress my anger, the way the room shook when I screamed in Dorian’s cell. The sense of power seething and crawling beneath my skin, just waiting to be unleashed. “I don’t know if it’s possible not to be,” I say quietly.
Ezra’s gaze is steady. “Well, I think it is,” he says. “And I’d like to prove it to you, if you’ll let me.”
My heart is in my throat. But I’ve come this far for Dorian; I can’t stop now. So after a moment, I nod.