Chapter 20
20
ELLIOT CRANE
How are you feeling?
SETH MAYS
Like shit.
Scared.
My phone buzzed.
I wiped the tears off my face before I answered it, even though Elliot couldn’t see me. But it made me at least feel a little bit like I was more in control of myself.
I wasn’t.
But I needed every little lie I could tell myself.
“What symptoms do you have?” he asked me, before I even managed to say anything. His voice was tight, sharp.
I sniffled a little. “Congestion,” I told him, although it was half because of Arcana and half because I’d been absolutely freaking out. “A splitting headache. Nausea, although I haven’t actually been sick. Sore throat.” I also sounded like someone had run an angle grinder over my vocal chords, but he could hear that without me needing to tell him .
“Any pain other than your head and throat?”
I let out a deep breath. “Nothing new.” I had to sound miserable. I felt miserable. If I were being honest with myself—which I sometimes manage to do—the illness itself wasn’t actually that bad. At least not yet. It was the dread and fear, the anticipation of some greater catastrophe, that was the worst part. So far.
I knew that some people got through Arcana with little more than cold symptoms. Other people, like Quincy, had worse symptoms, but were ultimately fine. It was entirely possible that I wasn’t going to feel any worse than this. Or maybe only a little worse. And that would mean that all my anxiety and fear were for nothing.
It was also possible that they were very much for good reason.
And that was the part that was absolutely turning my stomach in knots.
“What do you mean,” Elliot asked me. “‘Nothing new’?”
I felt my brow furrow. “No pain that I didn’t already have?”
“Do you often have pain?” he asked, and he might have sounded concerned.
“Yes?”
“Why?” He sounded genuinely surprised… and something else, although I couldn’t tell what it was.
“I have chronic Lyme,” I said softly.
“This goes with the alpha—” He paused, clearly not remembering it.
“Alpha-gal,” I finished for him. “You’d think so, but no. I’ve had Lyme since I was twelve. I didn’t get the alpha-gal until late last fall.”
He was silent for a moment. “That’s a lot of tick bites,” he observed .
“Two,” I said. “I mean, I’ve had more than that. Maybe five? Six? But…” I wasn’t sure how to finish that thought.
“I’m sorry, Seth,” he said gently.
I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “It is what it is,” I replied, feeling even more awkward that usual. I never know how to respond when people express their sympathies for my Lyme. I get it when people want you to feel better because you’re sick or injured, but when they say something about a chronic condition it’s just… weird.
Like, I’m also sorry I have Lyme and alpha-gal. I’d liked meat and cheese, and now I wouldn’t ever be able to have them again without risking death. I also really wasn’t a fan of having swollen and painful joints that would give me arthritis before I hit forty. But are you supposed to say that? Yeah, I’m sorry too . Or do you thank them for pitying you? Because that also feels wrong.
It’s weirder when they tell you they hope you feel better. Because if you say thanks, I won’t , they get upset, but I also find it a bit offensive that they want me to just magically feel better when I’ve spent most of my life dealing with this condition. It’s also not great when they ask if you’ve tried whatever new trend or snake oil thing they just read about on social media—although there have been times when someone has suggested something worth trying. But that tended to be the one-in-a-thousand sort of thing based on actual research shared by ILADS, the International Lyme and Associated Diseases Society, or one of their partners.
“Do you take anything for it?” Elliot asked me.
“Not really. Almost nothing helps,” I told him. “Part of the fun of chronic Lyme.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
I shrugged again, pointless though it was. “Not your fault. ”
“I know, but still.” He took a breath. “You know, I bet my dad would have had something...”
I waited for him to finish the sentence, but he fell silent. “Something?” I prompted.
“Dad grew medicinal herbs. Anti-inflammatory things. That kind of shit. He used to make compounds and salves and stuff for some of the locals.” Then he sighed. “I probably should have paid more attention.”
“Oh,” was all I could think of to say. What were you supposed to say? Sorry you didn’t pay attention to your murdered dad when he was alive so you can give me some sort of remedy for my pain? Even sick, I knew that would be a shitty, self-centered thing to say.
“Maybe Henry knows,” Elliot said, then.
“Henry?” I felt a stab of completely irrational jealousy. Whoever this Henry was, I didn’t like the idea of Elliot spending time with him. Not that I had any claim whatsoever on Elliot’s time or person. Especially since he’d probably known this Henry a lot longer than he’d known me.
“Henry’s an old friend of Dad’s,” Elliot replied. “Basically the grandfather I never had.”
Then I felt extra stupid, because I really had no cause to be jealous of Henry, since he was apparently old enough to be considered a grandpa. “Oh.”
“I—I should probably talk to him. He might know something that could help. If—if you wanted me to.”
I wasn’t used to Elliot sounding at all uncertain. “Sure. I mean. I’ll try pretty much anything once.” I didn’t tell him that pot worked, but that I tried not to use it too often because I didn’t want to build up a tolerance. And because I wasn’t about to use it if I had to go to work, because going to work a crime scene high was a terrible idea on so many fronts. I also wasn’t sure what Elliot would think of the fact that I use marijuana. Some people are judgy, and while Elliot didn’t seem like the type, I really didn’t know him all that well.
It was a reminder that I was talking about my fears with a stranger more than with my own twin.
I’d told myself that Noah didn’t need to deal with my freakouts and anxiety. It’s why I’d told him I was tired and hid in my room, swallowing back my tears because he had really damn good hearing. Because I didn’t want Noah to think that I didn’t want to be like him—I didn’t, but I knew that it would hurt him if he knew. I didn’t lie to him—I admitted I was scared, but I made it sound like I was worried about dying , not transforming. I was worried about dying. I was just also afraid to become what my brother was.
What Elliot was.
It’s just that, for some reason, I was willing to say it to Elliot, when I wasn’t willing to admit it to Noah.
This relationship—whatever it was or wasn’t—had red flags all over it. I was vulnerable, needy, coming off a long-term relationship that I really hadn’t recovered from. I had no business becoming invested in a man half a country away who had already made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything emotional or romantic. And because he wasn’t interested, I shouldn’t be unloading my emotional shit on him.
I had to stop.
“Elliot?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for calling.” I tried to sound pleasant. I knew I failed, but I hoped that it would at least convince him that I was less anxious. That he had helped.
And he had, a little. But he’d also prodded wounds that I shouldn’t even have. Wounds that transferred my fears about Arcana to my worry that I’d already lost too much of my heart and was going to have it shattered all over again. And he’d never even know that he was the reason for my heartbreak. He’d probably never even know my heart had been broken.
“Of course.” He sounded a little confused.
“I’m going to try to nap, I think,” I said. And I would. I would fail, but I would try.
“Okay,” he said, still sounding a little odd. “I hope you feel better.”
“Thanks.”
“And… Seth?”
“Yeah?”
“You can always talk to me. If you need to.”
“Thanks.”
I hung up, dropped the phone, and put my face in my hands, letting the tears run between my fingers. Noah was at work, so I let the sobs shake themselves loose.
I didn’t nap.
And I didn’t feel any better.
By dinnertime, my congestion and cough were worse, and the very thought of food made my stomach feel sour. Noah had tried to coax me with some saltines, but even smelling them made me feel ill.
I didn’t text Elliot, even though I wanted to.
“You need to eat, Sethy,” Noah told me.
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“You should try,” my brother insisted.
“I’ll just throw it up,” I retorted.
“You don’t know that,” Noah argued. Which, okay, I didn’t. I hadn’t thrown up yet because I’d refused to eat anything today. But I was ninety percent sure that if I did eat the damn crackers, they were going to come back up in ten minutes or less. But I was also nauseous enough that I also didn’t want to argue with him, because even the pressure of my diaphragm on my stomach from speaking made it worse.
So I just glared at him.
He didn’t glare back, exactly, but the look he did give me was absolutely designed to make me feel guilty. Or maybe he was just trying to communicate his worry as a way of showing me that he cares. But I know Noah loves me. He doesn’t have a choice, any more than I have a choice about loving him. We’re twins. He’s my other half, just as I am his.
Not the same way that people talk about it with their soul mates. At least, I don’t think so. I’d never had that kind of relationship. One where I felt like I’d found the perfect person. I’d thought that Devin was the man I’d end up settling down with, but I’d never thought of him as a soul mate. I guess I’d always figured I didn’t have one.
What I had with Noah was different—it was in our blood. Noah and I have been a pair since I was born, ruining his only-child status after only an hour. I’d been a surprise—or, rather, Noah’s small size had been a surprise, which had been explained about ten minutes after he was born when my mother’s labor didn’t stop and the midwife they’d employed to help her had listened and heard a second heartbeat. Why they hadn’t noticed that there were two of us before then, I had no idea, although I strongly suspected that their religious opposition to modern medicine probably had quite a bit to do with it.
Noah was my other half because we’d always done everything together, despite the best efforts of our parents, who didn’t think that it was appropriate for us to share a room or participate in the same kinds of sports or clubs. But we’d never cared, ignoring their rules, social convention, and the arguments of our teachers.
I joined choir, Noah hung around on the soccer field until they let him play. I learned how to knit—badly. Noah took up weightlifting. I cooked, Noah mowed the grass. By the time we were in junior high, everyone in our small Appalachian town took for granted that the Mays twins just went everywhere and did everything together. Including leave.
The only things we hadn’t shared were my Lyme and alpha-gal and his Arcanavirus.
I guess I was working on that last one. I didn’t feel like I was dying, and I didn’t feel like I was going to suddenly lose control of my own musculosketeletal system. Yet.
It was only day one. Two, if I thought the slight off-ness I’d felt yesterday was actual sickness and not just anxiety about getting sick. Or anxiety about emotionally dumping on Elliot. Or anxiety about Tierney, who was still hospitalized. Or Maza, Aimes, Lombardi, and poor Schitikova, all of whom also had symptomatic confirmed Arcana. Or rage about the killer having succeeded in infecting a bunch of us, which also meant that none of us were working on catching him.
I assumed the case had been passed off to someone else—hopefully someone competent. I wanted to be part of it. Wanted to see it through.
But as much as I wanted to be part of closing the case, catching the asshole who was doing this, I also wanted them to catch him before I got back. Because if they didn’t, then more people were going to die and more people would be infected. And then they’d have to pass it off again …
“Shit,” I breathed.
“What?” Noah asked, and I blinked, having gotten so lost in my own head that I hadn’t realized he was still there.
“Something for work,” I answered. “Something I need to tell someone.”
“Seth, you need to rest,” my brother told me.
“I know. And I will. I just need to send a text.” If I didn’t, it would drive me up the wall, and I’d get even less rest than I was already going to get.
Noah huffed, then put down the plate of crackers. “I’m going to get you some 7Up,” he said.
I looked at him, frowning. “We have 7Up?”
“No. That’s why I have to get it. Will you be okay for like twenty minutes?”
I nodded, and Noah sighed, then left, leaving my door cracked.
I pulled out my phone and went to text someone, but I hesitated at my contact list, wondering which detective I should reach out to. Maza was out, and I didn’t actually know who they gave the case to.
I went with my gut and texted Detective Maginot. This is Seth Mays, one of the CSIs who was just at the Arcana case scene.
How are you feeling? Came back.
Not great, but I need to tell you something. I started to type out more, but then my phone started to buzz.
“Detective,” I croaked.
“You certainly sound not great,” Maginot rumbled back at me. “What do you need to tell me, Mays?”
I unloaded everything I could think of. The viral DNA. The shoe impressions. The lack of patterns. My worries about what the killer was going to try next—the fact that whoever took the case was going to be his next target .
“Christ,” was Maginot’s response when I finished. “It sounds like I need to catch up with Maza.”
“Probably,” I agreed. I knew enough to be worried, but Maza undoubtedly knew more. “Is it your case?” I asked him.
“It is now,” he replied. “My next call will be to the Captain.” He paused, and I wasn’t quite sure what to say, but then he continued. “Thanks for contacting me—and take care of yourself, Mays. Get better soon.”
By the time Noah got back and made a thin noodle soup that he tried—and failed—to get me to eat, I had a fever. He forced me to take some alpha-gal-safe acetaminophen with some 7Up, and I managed to keep that down, although it took a concerted effort.
A few hours after that, he bullied me into drinking a little of the soup, and I didn’t manage to keep that down.
Nor could I keep down the gloopy pink shit that was supposed to help an upset stomach.
An hour after that, I couldn’t keep the 7Up down, either.
Noah bundled me in every extra blanket we had, then put a cold cloth on my forehead that he kept swapping out for others he’d put in the freezer.
He woke me up at four in the morning because I’d been crying out in my sleep. There were dark circles under his blue eyes—eyes that matched mine in color and worry. He pressed the back of his fingers to my forehead, and they felt cold .
“Try to drink again?” he practically begged me.
I was too exhausted to protest, and Noah held up a straw to my lips.
I managed two swallows before it tried to come back up, and I clenched my jaw and turned my head away so I could concentrate on keeping it down.
“You need calories, Sethy,” my brother said softly.
I didn’t reply, still struggling with my gag reflex.
Noah sighed, then put the cup and straw on the bedside table. “It’s here if you want more. If you need me to help, just call, okay?”
I nodded.
By six in the morning, the nausea had receded enough that I could drink the 7Up. By seven, I’d managed to drink the soup, but my stomach still rebelled at even the attempt at crackers.
Noah made more soup, brought me more 7Up.
He snuggled up next to me while we watched kids’ movies from when we were little, using his body heat to keep me warm when the fever made me shiver.
Sometimes, I dozed. Sometimes he did.
I finished my 7Up.
Noah brought us both vanilla ice cream—his had bananas and peanuts on top, but mine didn’t. Normally, he’d have done that for both of us, but anything chunky was out for me if I didn’t want to immediately bring it back up.
I ate the ice cream slowly, carefully.
I kept it down. I was still queasy, but it tasted good, and I knew I needed the calories.
I felt like I was getting better.