17. The Forest
17
The Forest
Calliope
I t isn’t until Rory clears his throat that she realizes he’s returned. She glances up from her book, blinking against the shift in light. When she began reading, the room had been lit up with afternoon sun, but now the room is shrouded in the weak light of burgeoning dusk.
Rory stands in the doorway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. “How’s it going?”
She shrugs, closing the book. “There’s a lot of talk of structures and diversion.” She shifts, patting the spot beside her.
Rory sits down, close enough that she can feel the coldness of his body, like she’s standing by an open window on a crisp autumn day. If only , she thinks, looking longingly at the window, through which the only breeze she feels is hot, heavy, and entirely ineffective against the stifling summer weather.
Turning back to Rory, she opens the book and points to a particular passage. His fingers brush lightly against hers as he takes the book.
“‘Thought-structures must be entirely defined before they can be used to ward against attack,’” he reads out loud.
“So, the first thing I need to do is define my thoughts—my mind and the way it works—and form it into something tangible. Something I can see clearly in my Mind’s Eye.” She leans closer, pointing to a particular paragraph. “The problem is that I don’t know what that should be. Fiorentini suggests long hallways or libraries, but that doesn’t feel quite right for me.”
His eyes scan the words quickly. “He also suggests a long road. Would that work?”
“Is that what you saw?” She ducks her head to catch his eye. “When you compelled me earlier?”
He frowns, leaning back against the couch. “I didn’t see anything. I just…pushed the words to you. I didn’t look inside your head.”
“But you can look inside someone’s head, right?” She pauses, waiting for his nod before continuing. “Fiorentini thinks that we all have an inherent thought-structures, something we’re born with, and to shield my mind, I just need to discover what that structure is.” He raises an eyebrow as she shifts closer to him, placing a warm hand on his forearm. “Could you look inside my head and tell me what you see?”
He seems hesitant, which doesn’t surprise her. The idea of dipping into someone else’s mind, no matter how temporary, feels oddly intimate. She almost blushes with the thought. But Fiorentini’s writing is clear that this is a necessary first step in protecting herself, and surely Rory’s desire to see her protected from compulsion outweighs his reticence.
He does eventually nod, letting loose a deep sigh as he turns to face her fully, resting his arm on the back of the couch. His free hand reaches up and slides behind her head, his cool touch entangled with her unruly hair. She feels a slight pressure at the base of her skull, encouraging her to lean closer, which she does, indulging, momentarily, in the depth of Rory’s grayish blue eyes, the flecks of gold so pronounced at this proximity it feels a bit like looking at the sun.
Dark spots bloom across her vision, and she feels his presence inside of her mind. She is surrounded by his magic, which is cold and dusky, sliding over her thoughts like black water. It feels entirely different from the witch magic to which she is accustomed, although it almost reminds her of the Ether—nothing and everything all rolled into one.
She feels just as safe, too, with Rory’s presence wrapped around her like cool silk. She is drowning, falling, even as she sits upright on the couch, even as she feels his thigh against her own and the hot breeze from the open window .
And then, like sunlight cutting through fog, she is suddenly standing in a forest. She is alone, though she can still feel Rory’s presence with her, entangled in her very thoughts and consciousness. The forest looks eerily like the one just outside the window, though with an odd arrangement of flora and fauna that she’s sure does not exist just outside of Graeme House.
The clearing she is standing in is edged with spindly pine trees and ancient oaks dripping in Spanish moss. But in between the towering trunks, she can see fields of wildflowers and unruly vines. She spots the sparkle of water in the distance and a winding dirt trail that cuts through the forest and stretches into the distance, obscured by a ghostly pale fog. The soft call of frogs and cicadas twirls around her as a butterfly flits across her vision.
It feels so real, the sun shining down on her shoulders, the dampness of the mist that hides her bare feet. She flexes her toes against the soft soil underfoot, feeling the sudden urge to spring into tears. This place is inside of her. This is the physical representation of her consciousness—her soul, even—and the knowledge slots into a place in her heart that she hadn’t even realized was empty.
She reaches out to trail her fingers against the rough bark of the nearest tree, but when her fingers connect, the soil shifts and she is falling again, into a memory, Rory’s presence falling along with her. She recognizes the room immediately as the memory of Maddox Grey solidifies in front of her. Lit by candlelight, she stands in the middle of his laboratory. Taking up the basement of their house, the rough-hewn stone floors of the lab are carved with symbols that hurt her bare feet as she takes a step backward. Maddox’s voice echoes around her. I don’t want to hurt you, Cal, but it’s the only way.
It was a lie, though she didn’t see it at the time. Even when the knife pierced her flesh, she thought she saw sadness in his eyes. She held him after, her arm stiff with a hastily applied bandage. In the memory now, Maddox stands in front of her, ceremonial dagger in his hand and she feels an acute sense of panic rise in her. He lifts the knife—
She blinks, finding herself back in her room at Graeme House, eyesight cloudy with tears. She wipes at her cheeks, looking away from Rory.
“Sorry,” she hears him say. “I didn’t mean to—”
She shakes her head. “It’s okay. It was my fault. I didn’t mean to…pull you with me.”
“Was that…?”
She looks up with a sniff and nods, feeling uncomfortable under Rory’s unreadable scrutiny. She worries what he will think of her now. She so easily and naively gave up her power for a man who didn’t deserve it and it took her years to fully see it. That she had been unaware of Maddox’s true nature at the time—that she loved him—doesn’t change the fact that she had been incredibly foolish to trust him with her body and her magic. The regret lingers, acutely, like a knife shoved through her rib cage.
“Anyway,” she says, hoping to diffuse the heat of his gaze, “I know why I couldn’t visualize a road. It’s a forest. Guess I better get to work felling some trees.”
* * *
It doesn’t take long for Calliope to realize that simply felling a tree is not the way to block a psychic intrusion. She learns this the next day when Rory compels her to stand on one leg. While his voice echoes around the forest, she envisions the nearest tree falling and when it does so, disturbing a flock of mockingbirds in the process, it falls to the ground with a loud crack—but does nothing to stop Rory’s voice. When she comes to, she is balanced precariously on one leg, and she promptly falls over. She stays on the kitchen floor, hands covering her face.
She feels Rory bend down beside her and his light, cool touch against her shoulder. “It took you longer to obey this time,” he says encouragingly.
She lowers her hands and gives him a wry smile. “Still ended up on the floor, though.”
He tilts his head, silver-streaked hair falling across his forehead. “Maybe you should take a break.”
She agrees, and a few minutes later, she settles in on the couch in her room, intending to read a novel Kane found for her in the library, only to find her attention straying toward the Fiorentini book, still open on the side table.
The last Fiorentini chapter she read emphasized that thought-structures, no matter how detailed, still need to be mapped out for the shielder to effectively guard and manipulate them. She isn’t sure how literal Fiorentini is when he uses the word “map,” but seeing that she hasn’t stepped beyond the circular clearing that she’s come to mark as her entrance point, she supposes creating a map, however informal and abstract, couldn’t hurt.
So, she slips back into her Mind’s Eye and begins to explore. She soon learns that not only do the trees hold her memories—as evidenced by the accidental fall into one of her most painful memories (and with Rory observing no less!)—but everything in her forest is tied to something, whether it’s an emotion, thought, or memory. The flowers that bloom at the foot of the trees hold her feelings in their pollen and petals. The moss that covers the ground is filled with her thoughts. The air is heavy with humidity and her fears.
Walking farther in, she finds that she’s not as alone as she previously assumed. A few steps into the thick brambles and she finds Hun, tail wagging in excitement. The beast jumps up, balancing two large paws on Calliope’s shoulders and licks her face.
Calliope laughs and gently pushes Hun back down to the ground. With one hand buried in the soft fur atop Hun’s head, Calliope continues walking, marveling at the mushrooms that grow with each step. When Hun bounds forward with a growl, she stops in front of a cloud of tangled weeds, wilting leaves crying ichor as black as night. Curious, she reaches out, only to realize that infested plant is the memory of her biting Officer Burton. She pulls her hand back quickly, before the sensation of her teeth against the man’s skin comes back to her.
“Well, this won’t do,” she says to Hun, who huffs in agreement.
She grabs the dark shape tightly, stuffing it down into the dirt, burying it as deeply as she can. It takes some time, as the memory keeps seeping out, like foul sewage bubbling up from underneath the ground. She is tamping down the soil with a flat palm, when the earth shifts and she finds her consciousness pulled out of her Mind’s Eye and back into the physical world. A thick line of blood oozes from her nose.
She presses a hand to her face. Hun’s growl reverberates against her temples. It’s a warning that she is pushing herself too far. Even the house agrees, as the lights above flicker in distress and an ominous creaking resounds through the walls.
She doesn’t even hear Rory’s footsteps but there he is, standing in front of her, hair mussed with the speed he used to get up the stairs. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
She holds the back of her hand to her nose. “Just a nosebleed. ”
The line in between his eyebrows deepens as he provides her with a bandana from his back pocket. “I thought you were taking a break.”
She presses the bandana to her nose, inhaling the sweet smoke and vetiver smell that she’s readily accepted as his . Her voice is muffled by the blood-soaked cloth when she speaks. “I just wanted to try something.”
He looks worried as he sits down next to her. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like this was urgent. You don’t have to master anything just yet. You still have a few more days here. And…” He runs a hand through his hair, averting his gaze. “You don’t have to leave after the two weeks are up, if you don’t want—if you’re not ready to.”
She lets his words sink in, but doesn’t reply. Isn’t sure how to, if she’s being honest. Her nosebleed has stopped, and she twists the cloth in between her fingers. “Do you know how to play piano?” she asks suddenly.
Rory’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “I know how. But knowing how to do something and being good at it are two different things,” he says mildly.
“Could you teach me?”
“Maybe later.” Her hesitant smile falls slightly. “I told Kane I’d walk the perimeter of the lake for him, to see if I can find any animal tracks that could help us identify our shadow-friend.”
“Oh, right. Of course. ”
He stands and stuffs the bandana in his back pocket, where it hangs out like a grotesque flag. Rory doesn’t seem to mind, but she supposes he must be used to having blood-stained garments. She’s ruined at least two of his shirts so far and possibly a pair of jeans. “The house responds to you. Maybe you could ask it for something to do? Like a hobby.”
She smiles and nods at him, the corners of her mouth tucked neatly into her cheeks. It’s not an entirely disingenuous facial expression, but she’s sure he can tell that his suggestion didn’t quite ignite a fire in her. She softens the look with a nod.
She waits until she hears the back door open before she stands and looks out of the window, watching the top of Rory’s head as he trots down the steps to the shore of the lake. She walks over to her bookshelves and reads a handful of the titles. But she’s been knee-deep in Fiorentini’s words, and she doesn’t much feel like reading anymore. Instead, she takes Rory’s words to heart, and she turns to an empty section of wall, tracing the outline of a flower in the wallpaper pattern as she whispers, “What should I do with my time, do you think?”
But the house is silent, nary a creak or light flicker or even a slowly opening door. She frowns, fighting against a sense of rejection, before turning around and promptly tripping over an oddly shaped wood box.
She lands heavily on the floor, the rug doing little to cushion her fall. “That wasn’t very nice,” she says out loud. The light above burns brighter, then recedes back to its normal output. She takes this as an apology and pats the floor in forgiveness.
Inspecting the wooden box, she realizes that it’s a portable easel. She opens it up and finds a selection of paint brushes and a few sticks of charcoal. There’s no paint, but there’s a large bottle of honey and a jar of gum arabic sitting next to the easel, which she takes to mean that the house wants her to make her own paints. Luckily, it’s something she used to do with her grandma when she was little, and she wonders if the house could tell, as if the tiny dust motes floating around have infiltrated her memories and are relaying information to the wood and brick and stone.
She’s not sure if that’s creepy or comforting.
Next to the easel is a small swath of canvas, enough for at least a dozen paintings, if she keeps them relatively small. She’ll need to make frames, of course, to stretch the fabric over. The window swings back and an unusually cool breeze from the lake wafts through the room. Outside it is, she thinks, gathering herself to her feet.
She finds a fallen tree branch just a few steps into the tree line that circles the house. It takes some effort to pull it out from the underbrush and to the small clearing by the lake. The axe, found leaning against the side of the house, is heavier than she realizes, and she lifts it with a grunt, only to have it snatched out of her hands so forcefully that she falls backward .
Rory’s strong grip steadies her, and she lets herself rest against his chest for a second, before straightening up. She turns, arms crossed. The manacles clink together in a way that sets her teeth on edge. “What was that for?”
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says gruffly.
“Well maybe if I didn’t have to wear these cuffs, I wouldn’t even need the axe.” She holds them up for effect, but Rory remains unmoved. Her arms drop to her sides. “And won’t I just heal anyway?” she adds with a small shrug.
“If you cut yourself, yes.” He angles his head in thought, before adding, “Most likely, anyway. But I’d rather not test out whether you can regrow limbs.” He looks around her at the tree on the ground. “What are you trying to do anyway?”
“I want to make some canvases.” She motions toward the front porch, where her scraps of canvas fabric rest on the steps, their raggedly cut edges swaying gently in the breeze.
He shakes his head. “Go back inside the house—”
“No.”
His jaw clenches, then unclenches. He opens his mouth to say something, but Calliope can’t hear him. Her own indignation is like a fire roaring in her ears. Hun stands alert inside of her. Calliope’s skin feels warmer, the prickling heat traveling up her arms and across her scalp. “I’m not a prisoner,” she reminds him. “And you can’t stop me from— ”
“From what? From hurting yourself? Isn’t that what we agreed? You stay for—”
She huffs, disbelieving. “ You insisted on the two-week deadline so I could show you that I won’t become a blood-hungry killer.”
His eyes flash at her. “Yeah, and you sunk your teeth right into the first human you came across.”
Her mouth drops open at his reference to Officer Burton, his words hitting her like lightning. “That’s hardly fair,” she begins to say, even though she doesn’t quite believe it. “You said he was fine.” Although the memory of her biting Burton is still buried, she can still feel its weight inside of her mind, and the soil covering it is soaked in shame.
“Maybe we should amend the agreement. You’re staying here until you can prove that you won’t bite a non-consenting human, and you won’t hurt yourself in the meantime.”
The word non-consenting seems to echo in her head and there it is again, the seeping mass of weeds pushing through the soil. Shame bubbles up inside of her, and she blinks back tears as she pushes past him, feeling a small twinge of satisfaction as the house slams the door behind her.
She races up the stairs, annoyed that she hasn’t gained the graceful speed that Rory possesses, and collapses on the couch in her room, burying her face in her hands as she cries. She sobs, heedless of the noises wracking their way out of her throat, her whole body on fire with a cureless fever.
She cries until she feels wrung dry, and with blood-tinged cheeks, she unpeels her clothing and slips into a chilly bath. In a moment, she will immerse herself in her Mind’s Eye and begin the arduous task of, once again, burying the memory of Officer Burton, but, for now, she leans back, cataloging her body. Her awareness travels down her torso, to the tips of her fingers, her knees, her toes.
There is a hesitant knock on the door.
“Hey. Calliope,” Rory begins. She hears him shift nervously and imagines his hands going to his pockets—his go-to stance when he’s nervous about something. Nervous about her . Is he really that afraid of her? “I’m heading off to work. I poured you a glass. It’s in the fridge. Can you—if you need anything, you know where the number is.”
She knows he had been about to tell her to stay inside. That he changed tact at the last second does little to lessen the sting of his words from earlier. She doesn’t reply and a few moments later, she hears the sounds of his car starting, tires crunching against the dirt as he maneuvers the hunk of rusty metal away from the house.
Then, she slides underneath the water and begins reburying the memory of the time she sank her teeth right into the first human she came across .