15
Demi
The Widow of Ivy Hollow cursed me. There’s no other explanation for how god-awful I feel. My sister’s prophecy came true; I absolutely contracted the plague from her.
The illness hit me a few days after I spent the night with Blue on her couch, and it knocked me clear on my ass.
I woke up this morning before the sun, nauseous from a sinus-pressure migraine, and unable to take a deep breath without wheezing.
My body is wracked with chills and a nasty fever that I can tell is just on the edge of dangerous.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this sick.
I keep slipping in and out of consciousness, which is a blessing, to be honest, because my head hurts so badly I can’t bear to be awake and open my eyes. Mittens is curled at my side, meowing her concern every so often.
Shivers pummel my body, and not deliciously, the way they did the other day when I asked my ghost roommate to touch me. No, that was divine, and this… this is hell. I can’t get warm, I can’t cool off, I can’t stop shaking.
My limbs feel heavy, almost paralyzed. I know I need water and medicine to fight the ravages of this fever and migraine, but I can’t move.
Every time I try to sit up, my head feels like it’s being crushed between two boulders, and a wave of nausea hits me so hard that I dry- heave.
Which then results in a coughing fit so violent it makes me dizzy and sends a sharp slice of pain down the center of my chest.
To make matters worse, I was so delirious last night that I left my phone in the kitchen instead of bringing it to bed with me.
I’d call Blue to cash in on some well-earned recompense for taking care of her, but I can’t even fathom getting out of bed, let alone making it all the way downstairs to the kitchen.
I feel shipwrecked in the middle of the sea, with no path to shore.
Shapes swim past my vision. Willowy shadows and orbs of light cloud the edges and blur the lines between what is real and what happens when a fever boils your brain.
There’s no way to tell the time. One moment, the sun will be burning through the windows like a vengeful god, and the next, my bedroom will plunge into a darkness so complete that I can’t see my hand in front of my face.
The sheets are drenched in sweat, so I shuck off the covers, and the effort of that alone leaves me winded.
The relief of the cool air against my skin is the only good thing in the world.
That is, until it becomes unbearably cold a mere moment later, and I’m blindly clawing around my bed to find the corner of the blanket to pull over my trembling body again.
My body aches in that bone-deep kind of way only an illness can deliver. I roll to my side and curl into a ball. Longingly, I look at my nightstand, where a glass of water and my phone should ?be but are not. Goddamn it.
In my direct line of sight is the bedroom door.
It looks to be about a mile away, even though it’s only a few feet.
I contemplate getting up. There’s cold medicine and fever relief in the primary bathroom just down the hall.
Why I chose to store it there and not in my en-suite is beyond me.
Probably the dumbest decision I’ve ever made.
With a deep breath, I force myself upward into a sitting position. For a split second, everything goes black, and a fresh spike of pain drives its way into my skull. My stomach roils.
“Shit,” I curse out loud through clenched teeth.
My vision clears, and I fix it on the bedroom door with determination. I can do this. I have to do this.
A long and broad shadow flickers in the space between me and the door. It’s vaguely shaped like a person, but I don’t have the energy to even startle at the possibility. I blink, and the shadow is gone.
My legs feel like they weigh about eight hundred pounds each as I swing them over the edge of the bed. The floor is like ice against my bare feet.
Using the bedpost for support, I pull myself to standing. I’m shaking and woozy, and that shadow from a moment ago reappears, its shape clearer this time. It looms over me, stretching at least a foot taller than I am. Broader than me, too.
Jesus, this fever is doing a number on me.
The shadow dissolves.
Not trusting my mobility, I walk along the wall, keeping a hand on it to steady myself. One step at a time, and each step feels like running a marathon. I can feel my heart pounding against my chest, which is less-than-comforting. The corners of my vision are blurred and blackened .
I immediately know that I won’t make it down to the kitchen. The bathroom will have to do. Hopefully, once I get some medicine into my system, I’ll have the strength to retrieve my phone.
The bedroom door is finally within grasp, and I turn the knob to open it. There must be a window open somewhere in the house because a cold draft curls around me as I make my way—so painfully slowly—down the hall. I cling to the wall for dear life as a drop of sweat creeps down my spine.
“Demi.”
The whisper of my name crawls up the nape of my neck, and I freeze. Spoken in a barely-there baritone, it sounds like a man’s voice, like wind through tree branches. First, the person-shaped shadow in my room, and now this. The fever has me seeing and hearing things. That can’t be good.
I’m halfway to the primary bathroom, and I force my feet back into motion. One foot, then the other, like I’m just learning to walk for the first time. My bones ache and my head throbs. A dizzy spell hits me like a freight train, but I keep moving, slow and deliberate.
“ Demi. ” The voice comes to me again, along with another cold draft, wrapping around me like curled tendrils of smoke.
My fever-broken brain has trouble making sense of it. Through the cotton in my mind, I remember I’m not alone in this house. Could the voice be Tristan’s? Is he near?
Even if he isn’t at my side, even if I’m imagining the voice and the haunted breeze, the idea of him there makes me feel better. Like if my legs were to give out, someone might be there to soften my fall .
Finally, I make it to the primary bathroom. There’s a gilded-edge mirror above the sink, and I catch a glimpse of myself in it. I look like hell. Sweaty and pale, with dark circles around red-rimmed eyes. For as terrible as I look right now, I feel even worse.
I find the box of cold medicine in the cabinet, pop two out of the blister pack, and put them onto my tongue.
After cupping my hands beneath the faucet, I raise them to my mouth, and the cold water hits the back of my sore throat like a balm.
I feel it slither through my insides as if I’m a dried-out plant absorbing its first hydration in a long time.
Lifting my head to the mirror once more, I see a figure standing behind me.
Tall, broad-shouldered. The shape of a man.
A gasp startles out of me. The sudden upset to my system triggers a coughing fit, sending me bending forward and clutching the sink.
I fight for every breath that returns to my lungs, and when I look back up into the mirror, the figure is gone. Like it was never there to begin with.
The return journey to my room feels longer, interminable, but somehow I make it.
I collapse into bed with a grunt. Feeling old and worn, I curl onto my side and send up a silent divination to the goddesses that the cold medicine kicks in quickly.
I don’t even have the energy to pull the blankets up around me.
Something flickers in my field of vision, like a candle flame, or the screen of an old television suffering a loose connection. I swear there’s a face in that flicker. Or the hint of a face. A suggestion of sharp features and dark hair with a gentle curl.
“Hello?” I croak, my voice barely recognizable .
A blessedly cool sensation presses against my forehead. It immediately cools my fevered blood and softens the ache in my head. It’s so good that I release a weak sigh and close my eyes, leaning into the feeling. Relief. Sweet, cold relief.
When my eyes open once more, I’m met with the most handsome face I’ve ever seen.
A strong jawline, carved out in sharp relief by the dusting of a trimmed beard.
Soft lips set in a pensive line. Dark brows, furrowed.
Hair the color of milk chocolate, in waves that fall to a set of broad shoulders.
Beautiful eyes, so gray they’re almost silver, filled with sharp concern, deep worry, as he looks back at me.
Even if I’d never seen a picture of him, I’d know exactly who he is. It might be the fever talking, but I think my ?heart would know it was him.
On his knees next to my bed, with his hand pressed to my forehead, is Tristan Beaumont.
“There you are,” I say with a smile.