27. Forevermore #2
The phone exchanges hands with a shuffle before Scarlett takes over.
“She needs her medicine. Especially after everything.”
Something in her voice makes my mouth dry.
“What medicine?” I rasp.
“Benoit should have it. All the shadows Sol sent out carried some. We wanted to get them to her as soon as possible. According to her pill organizer, she already missed two days even before Bon Temps Night.”
“What are they for?” I rake a hand through my hair, pacing, the slim pill bottle burning in my jeans pocket. “Is she okay?”
“I hope so. She needs them soon, though. Abrupt withdrawal can trigger symptoms. But how or to what degree isn’t predictable. It’s a tricky diagnosis.”
My pulse quickens. “Mrs. Bordeaux?—”
“Scarlett’s fine.”
“Scarlett, I’m trying not to freak out here.”
She swallows audibly. “My daughter… She has what I have. Bipolar disorder. Type two. It’s a little different than mine but can still be just as difficult.”
My breath catches. The Bordeauxs keep certain things tightly under wraps, with their medical privacy at the top of the list. As fucked up as it was to stalk Luna for so long, I didn’t feel right asking Dash to hack into those systems. I figured out Mrs. Bordeaux’s bipolar disorder type one diagnosis from word of mouth and rumors about episodes a long time ago.
But nothing, nothing even hinted that Luna has it.
Or did I miss it?
Emotion is thick in my throat. “Okay. How can I help her?”
She exhales what I’m pretty sure is relief, like I passed a test.
“It’s really encouraging that’s your first question.”
I frown. “What other question is there?”
She huffs dryly. “You’d be surprised what people say.”
My brows raise, but she continues, “Let me give you a quick rundown. First thing you need to know is stress and poor sleep are major triggers for our Luna. Emotional overload’s one too.
What would make someone else crack might shatter her.
Any combination of those could trigger a depressive or hypomanic episode, and the other will almost always follow.
Or, like I said, she could be completely fine. ”
My gaze drags back to Luna, still mourning her dead friend… in an abandoned shack… one I’ve basically held her hostage in… and kept her up with my nightmares… after kidnapping her.
Well shit.
“Alright.” I shut my eyes, grimacing. “Hit me with it.”
She walks me through the symptoms Luna experiences during episodes, starting with depression, none of which I’ve clocked.
But when Scarlett moves on to hypomania, certain hallmark signs have my chest tightening to the point of pain. I have to fight the sensation that I’m drowning, trapped deep underwater.
Pressured speech. Check.
No sleep but tons of energy. Check. Check.
Impulsivity. Triple check for my reckless girl.
Irritability, frustration, mental acuity, and even pain or temperature toleration that can all either be blunted or heightened. Quadruple fucking check.
“And then,” Scarlett hesitates. “Sol, do you mind?”
“Scarlett… no. You can’t think they’d?—”
“Just go, Sol, please?”
“I’ll kill him,” he grumbles, ending the rest of the threat in French.
But a door slams and Scarlett sighs.
“Orion?”
“I’m here,” I answer, my pulse racing as I hold my breath.
Her gentle voice drops low. “Another symptom is sexual impulsivity. She may be more… forward than usual. Or act on feelings that—to be clear—are still her feelings, but whether she would’ve acted on them otherwise is a different question.”
My heart stutters to a stop, aching. I stumble backward, landing against a tree.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I don’t want to go there, slapping my hand over my eyes and desperately trying to push the image away, but my mind pictures Luna open and begging, needing me to claim her.
My dick shrivels, my heart along with it. What if I twisted a moment meant to be sacred? What if I took something she didn’t really want to give?
I’m lightheaded, so I try to breathe past the agonizing guilt ripping through my chest, but there’s no use. And honestly, I don’t deserve the relief. All I want to do is rush back to the cabin and beg Luna to tell me that the best moment of my life wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done.
But I can’t even look at her.
Scarlett blows out a harsh exhale. “I sense you and my daughter need to talk.”
I slide down the tree, landing in a crouch, my shame so heavy I can’t hold myself up under the weight.
“We do.”
She sighs. “Since we were prepared because of my own condition, Luna’s managed hers quite well from the beginning.
She takes her medicine, practices good sleep hygiene, and the girl couldn’t be serious or stressed if she tried.
” She chuckles lightly. “Luna’s a free spirit in every sense.
Some of that comes naturally. But some of it’s on purpose. ”
All the pieces I’ve missed snap together into the gorgeous, intricate puzzle that is my Luna.
The way she’s the life of the party and carefree, even when she doesn’t want to be.
She’s always included others, no doubt because she knows what it’s like to be different.
How she tried so hard to avoid talking about her emotions with me the other night…
“Sometimes hypomanic episodes can be exhilarating, and Luna’s been known to ‘ride the high,’ as she calls it. But that rollercoaster is not safe. Her decisions could accidentally hurt her or other people, and long-lasting hypomania is bad for our brains.”
“What do I need to do?” I ask quickly.
“Episodes are different for everyone, but for Luna, she comes out of them fastest with the help of sleep, mood stabilizers, and exercise. Interestingly enough, though, nature grounds her more than anything. Running the Garden District has helped, but I always wished we could take her hiking again. She loved it. We used to go up to the mountains all the time, until…”
“Until the Furys called on the pact,” I finish, another awful pang of guilt splitting me in two.
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. We both know the second King called Sol on his debt, Luna’s life changed forever.
“You got anything else for me, ma’am?”
“No. That’s the quick and dirty of it,” she says, then her voice softens. “Take care of our girl, Orion. I think you just might be the one to do it.”
My chest warms, that one piece of encouragement making it hope that we didn’t fuck everything up beyond repair.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bordeaux. Can you put Sol back on?”
In an instant, Sol’s gruff voice returns.
“What?”
“I’m guessing y’all hooked up a GPS tracker on Benoit’s car? I can find it through his phone?”
“Yes? Why?”
“Good. I’ve got his keys, and I need a car since the Wildes torched mine.”
He curses.
“I’m sure you have our location by now thanks to our call.” I soften my tone. “Come get your man for a proper burial, Bordeaux. I’d do it, but I have to get Luna home.” He starts to argue, so I clarify, “ Our home. In Dark Corner. Don’t come after us without a treaty.”
“Always about the Troisgarde, I see,” he snaps.
“The fuck it is, Bordeaux.” My grip tightens on the phone as I stand. “It’s always been about Luna .”
“And you think I don’t know what’s best for her?” Sol grinds out. “You’re talking about my daughter, Fury. My daughter .”
“No. My wife .”
My thumb smashes the screen, ending the call.
I lean back against the tree again, blowing out a breath, letting my head hang. I tap the phone against my forehead, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. Then I pocket it and walk back to Luna, still where I left her, cradling what’s left of her past.
Foregoing the meds talk for now, I settle on a slightly less shitty conversation instead.
“We can’t stay here.”
A beat of silence passes us before she murmurs, “I know.”
Her eyes lift, clearer now, but sorrow still carves into every exhausted feature. She slept in my arms last night, but it can’t have been enough. I’ll have to make sure she gets as much as possible when we’re home.
“We’ll get Benoit’s car,” I say. “His phone’s GPS will lead us there.”
Her nose wrinkles. “What happened to your car?”
I suck my teeth. “Let’s just say it’s beyond repair.”
She winces. “The Wildes?”
I nod. “The Wildes.”
“They’re really the gift that keeps on giving,” she mutters, then sighs and shakes her head. “I don’t want to leave him.”
“I know.” My hand squeezes her shoulder. “I know.”
Her voice turns watery, emotion pressing hard against the floodgates. “What am I going to do when I get back? Everything’s changed.”
I don’t tell her she’s never going back, at least not without her husband as her personal shadow. Or that death like this is one of those things that changes you at a cellular level.
Before, she’d built a life as pure and bright as the white swan costume she ran from me in. Now the darkness of our worlds has stained every inch of her, inside and out. I would’ve saved her from the wreckage if I could’ve. But now that the veil’s lifted from her eyes, there’s only one way forward.
So I try to give her the comfort I can. With the only truths I know.
“You take it day by day. Give all the love you’ve got to the ones who are still here.”
“And the ones who aren’t? How do we go on without them?”
The rest of the platitudes burn to ash on my tongue. I shake my head, my throat dry, the words thick.
“We try our best.”
A tear slips down her cheek. I brush it away with my knuckles, catching it on the letters tattooed there. Her arms tighten around her friend, like she can will him back to life just by holding on harder.
Moisture stings my own eyes at the sight of her pain, its familiarity buried deep in my marrow. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, let alone my wife. It’s an ache that nothing but time will dull but never erase. Sometimes, not even that works.
Still, urgency claws at my sternum. I hate to tear her away before she’s ready, but we have to get out of here. I have to keep her safe.
She leans against me, another tear streaking through the dirt lightly dusting her cheek.
Fuck, I have to give her something . We can’t even put her friend to rest yet, and she won’t feel any kind of relief until she’s had some way to say goodbye.
An idea sparks. It won’t repair her heartache, nothing can, but it’s a comfort that’s generations old for a reason. Maybe the Appalachia in her soul will connect with it, giving her at least a thread of peace.
“I have something that may help.” I grab a moonshine jug from the corner marked “P.R.” in black sharpie.
Her brow lifts in question, and I raise my hand. “Hear me out. We’ve got a ritual around here. A goodbye toast.”
“A toast,” she asks skeptically, eyeing the jug.
I nod. “I can’t explain why, but saying goodbye like this helps. It still hurts like hell, but paying respects in our way heals something, I think.”
I offer my hand, like I have every time we’ve danced together, hoping she’ll trust me enough to take it.
She gazes down at Benoit for a long, painful heartbeat. Then her voice is barely above a whisper as she answers.
“Okay.”
She lays him gently, reverently back on the floor. Then she slips her hand into mine, my pulse thrumming from her touch outward. I help her to her feet, guiding her to the stove, the untended embers inside having all but gone out.
Curiosity flickers in her eyes as I raise the moonshine toward the mountain in the north.
“For the dead who’ve gone before,” I say solemnly, tapping the bottom of the jug on the mantel. Then I lift it again, this time to Benoit, and pour a careful ounce onto the hearth before the stove. “Rest, dear spirit, forevermore.”
Her eyes shine as I pass the jug to her trembling hands. Her voice cracks as she repeats the tribute.
“For the dead who’ve gone before…” She turns to Benoit. “Rest, my friend… forevermore.”