Chapter 11 Deconstructing
Deconstructing
One moment Liv was doing pretty all right, considering the situation, and even thinking of a wisecrack. Then, boom, synaptic overload, the world clicked off like a giant light switch.
The next thing she knew, she was horizontal instead of vertical, still in jeans and the same black T-shirt but with fresh socks, and alone on a familiar-unfamiliar bed.
Oh Jesus. The thought that she might have had a complete psychotic break and this was an asylum with a particularly liberal attitude toward treatment—especially pharmacological—was super comforting.
Or it would have been, if the several pairs of wet, filthy socks she’d had on yesterday—or whenever it was—weren’t at the foot of the goddamn bed, gravel caught in their outer layers.
Her ass hurt, her back ached, and her palms were abraded, but the injuries felt days old instead of fresh.
All that she could have explained away, one way or another.
But the socks.
Mud. Twigs. Tiny pebbles. She stared for far too long before realizing both her bladder and her stomach were incredibly unhappy.
Fortunately, one problem was way more critical than the other, and after it was attended to in the bathroom’s clean white-tiled glare, her stomach settled with a thump.
A healthy dose of cold water to her face felt incredibly helpful; she stopped, hunched and dripping over the gleaming porcelain sink.
It walloped her again, the sheer grinning, slavering unreality of what she’d seen. The memory drove a short, strangled sound out of her, and she wandered into the bedroom without bothering to dry her face. Stopped, staring at the bed.
More specifically, at the socks.
If it was a psychological fake-out, it was a damn good one. Touch of genius, really, right up there with the blond guy springing her from the room.
Thump-thump.
Liv whirled, almost toppling in her haste, and froze, staring at the doorway. A few lone droplets kissed her shoulders; her hair was a wild mess. The sound came from the suite’s outer room, but she didn’t quite think her legs were up to carrying her that far.
For one lunatic moment she wondered if they would consider putting a lock on her side of the door. The funny thing was, in this state of mind, she’d absolutely, one hundred percent use it.
Thump-thump. There it was again. Someone knocking.
But you can’t… come… in! The ancient pop song blared inside her head, and she managed to croak, “Okay.”
It was barely a whisper, but there was the faint sound of the door opening. The woozy certainty that this was the beginning of yet another vivid, overwhelming nightmare swamped her hard and fast. The world wavered, an underwater undulation.
“Oh, shit.” The blond guy appeared in the bedroom doorway, and she stared uncomprehendingly at him. “Father? Father!”
“I told you, she’s deconstructing.” The dark-haired guy shouldered past him and bore down on her.
Liv flung up a hand, fingers spread. A hot flush ran through her, scalp to toes, and the dark-haired guy stopped dead, leaning forward as if into a heavy wind.
“You’re in a type of shock,” he said quietly, gaze locked with hers.
Oddly, that soothed her. He’d fought those things off last night.
Moving in ways no human should be able to, and with a pair of wicked curved knives that were definitely not for chopping onions.
Still, he was able to keep the monsters at bay, and that was good enough right now.
“It’s all right. It’s normal, and you’re gonna be fine. You just have to adjust.”
Oh, sure. I’ll adjust. To those… those things…
The worst wasn’t suspecting that she was crazy, or that the world held secret, hidden terrors. It wasn’t even seeing one of those terrors with its shape so subtly, appallingly wrong, either.
No, the absolute worst thing was those fucking socks. She could have ignored everything else, if they hadn’t been just sitting there, smug in their sock-ness, in their plain, modest assertion that yes, the terrors existed, and yes, Liv Stellack had been dreaming about them her entire life.
“Acute psychological distress.” The lean, iron-haired older man in his long black coat appeared behind the blond. With all three of them in here the room was awfully small, and she wanted to back up, get away; there wasn’t enough air. “Jake, go into the hall.”
The blond’s eyebrows headed for his hairline. “Father?”
“Go.” The old man waited until Jake had retreated with one last long glance at Liv, who stood and trembled, fighting for air. “Erik?”
“Yessir.” The brunet guy didn’t look away. He seemed to be willing her to stay cool, to keep herself together.
Oh, God, I’m trying. Liv’s hands opened and closed, convulsively. There was a little more space since the blond was gone. If the old guy would just back off too, she could probably handle this.
Or at least, handle something. Did this mean all her other dreams were real, or just the gruesome, monster-laced ones?
How about the other dreams, seeing a fall of light or a particular view and running across the very same thing a week to a few months later, the déjà vu pouring through her alternately scorching and icy?
How about those, friends and neighbors?
“I will be in the outer room.” The older guy inclined slightly in her direction, a small bow like an uncertain butler. Did priests have butlers? “Be gentle.”
“Of course.” Erik still didn’t look away. “We’ll just hang out for a little bit, take it easy.”
The idea that there was such a thing as taking it easy, when there were tentacled horrors with giant bleeding suckers or strange hulking quadrupeds with hellfire eyes, tentacles, and coats made of shifting glass walking around, walloped her again. Erik took another step forward.
“Shhhh,” he said, in that same strange, gentle murmur.
“It’s okay. It’s just you and me, Dreamer.
Take your time, all right? You’re safe, you’re not crazy.
Okay? I’m gonna be right here with you.” He spread his hands, raising his arms slightly as if talking to a terrorist or robber during a standoff. “Just keep your eyes on me, beautiful.”
“You’re… monster hunters?” she managed, tentatively. Please tell me this makes some kind of sense. “Right?”
“Right.” A slight, approving nod. With only him in the room a lot of the air returned, and the iron band around her ribs eased up. “Good. You’re doing great.”
“There’s not enough air,” she whimpered, hating herself for the stupidity, not to mention weakness.
“The air’s coming back,” he answered promptly, and that made a mad kind of sense.
Enough that she whooped in a gigantic breath, and he gave that little nod again, as if she’d accomplished something grand.
“See? So yes, monsters are real and we’re monster hunters; that’s a good way to put it.
We rely on people like you. Lirai. Dreamers. ”
Who’s Larry? Lar-ai? Liv tried to think, got exactly nowhere, fastened on the most bizarrely logical part of the whole deal. “So… I’m a monster hunter too?” Can I put that on a resume?
“Oh, beautiful, you’re so much more.” Erik shook his head slightly, and his faint smile was a co-conspirator’s now, encouraging, almost kind.
“You’ve seen all the movies, right? This is the part where you have a little trouble with the idea, and I calm you down, then I ask you to trust me. This is exactly that part, Livvie.”
Oh, God, don’t call me that. The annoyance was a wonderful bracer, like a shot of tequila after a bad breakup.
“I don’t think I want the training montage,” she managed, and was rewarded by the intensifying of that slight smile. He had a face like a sheer cliff, but if you looked closely, there were flickers of expression.
Here she was staring at a guy she didn’t know, who had kidnapped her and saved her from a giant tentacle squidbeast and some kind of supersized alien werewolf.
There wasn’t any sort of rulebook or manual for this.
She couldn’t even find a legal definition, despite all the reams of court documents she’d read, depositions she’d proofed, or official letters she’d written.
“I don’t think I would either.” Strangely, Erik sounded like he’d actually considered the notion and made a serious decision.
“Now, the best thing for you would be something to eat, and something warm to drink. Just to let your body know the sabertooth tiger’s gone now, you see?
Right now you’re still in fight-or-flight. ”
“Are there?” Her throat was a sandpaper wasteland, but fight-or-flight made sense. She couldn’t do either at the moment, so she was vapor-locking, like Mika when faced with the prospect of snakes. “Sabertooth tigers, I mean?”
“Haven’t seen one yet.” But, his tone said, I don’t rule it out.
Oddly enough, his simple matter-of-factness helped. The room opened up further, her lungs filled once more, and Liv was suddenly aware she was sweating, every muscle either trembling or gone numb. She wanted to sit down very, very badly, but not on the bed.
Not where those socks were.
“All right.” All intransigence drained away, and she took a step forward. Another, and reached out blindly.
Erik’s hands clasped hers. His grasp was solid, warm, and undeniably human.
Liv let out a dry, barking sob, caught her breath, and stared at his almost-expressionless face. He waited, holding her hands in his hard, warm palms like it was no big deal. The touch steadied her, and she wanted to get away from the bed and the goddamn socks.
“Can we go in the other room?” she whispered. A scream boiled in her throat; she denied it.
“One step at a time.” He even backed up with eerie grace, meeting her gaze the entire way.