Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
The field was gone, lost to the night. Every time we switched places to talk, he came back louder and faster. I could barely catch my breath. With hands on my knees and the taste of iron on my tongue, I begged for the world to stop spinning. I only had a few minutes. Rae couldn’t hold off forever.
The cabin was still there. It was close enough that the warmth of the glowing light from the windows kissed my skin.
Rae’s advice threaded through my thoughts: don’t push. There hadn’t been enough time to brainstorm. Hell, I’d hardly had enough time to blink. The longer he stayed facing forward, the more time I had to approach the cabin.
I had let him in with little thought. The process had been almost vampiric.
He lingered at the threshold, but the way he asked sounded like the familiar chime of a doorbell.
I opened the door to my mind without much thought because I’d done it before.
In those nightmares when I didn’t believe in creatures in the shadows, I let the demon in.
You’ll have to trick him to get him back outside.
I scoffed to myself. This would downright be the hardest thing I’d try to do, figuring out how to trick a creature whose whole job was creating deals and writing contracts.
“What’s so funny?” he leaned down, catching my gaze.
“Nothing, I—” He was gone again before I could finish. The air where he’d stood smelled of burning lavender. I lifted my wrist to my nose, smelling the same scent there, too. There were red bumps and scarring along my forearm, multiplying by the second. The ritual was starting.
Think, I willed myself, pulling my gaze away from my skin. If you let him in and can’t force him out…
The cabin lights flickered, a tell that he was spending more energy and losing his grip.
I resurfaced for a second. My vision didn’t have enough time to clear from the blur.
All I made out was the silhouette of Rae standing a few feet in front of me.
She spoke in a different language, words coming down as fast as rain in a summer storm.
Having the demon in my mind was like all those nightmares about home invasion. I’d tried to be so proactive about making sure it didn’t happen that I didn’t prep for if it did.
So, when you faced a threat to not only your life but soul, what weapon was there to pick up?
I went to the cabin. He hadn’t said not to go, but every inch closer was like trekking through quicksand. Before I reached the door, my shoe got stuck in the mud. I yanked and twisted. Each pull made me sink faster.
I stretched farther, trying to get hold of the slippery brass knob.
“What are you doing?” He shoved me in the back.
My chin dug into the ground, teeth chattering and head stinging.
Before he could do anything more, he was gone again.
Because one of us had to steer my body. And since he couldn’t be in two places at once, I was the one who got the chance to claim shelter.
I used every bit of strength to pull my foot out of my shoe. My muscles tore, but the pain was nothing compared to the potential permanent loss of autonomy.
My shoe stayed behind as I crawled forward.
The door swung open, creaking loudly on its hinges.
I held my breath and pushed my way inside.
He was in front of the door right as I kicked it shut.
I braced my feet against it, ready to fight him off.
But all that came was a low, calm request. “Octavia, we should talk.”
I swallowed and remained quiet.
“A lot’s happening right now.” He slammed a fist against the door, but he continued to speak as if he were placing an order in a fine-dining restaurant.
I scrambled to my feet and clicked the deadbolt of the door and then slid on the chain lock. That had always been my routine after the nightmares, going around and checking all the locks.
His pounding shook the entire wall this time. And his tone became that of a parent trying to keep their calm in a supermarket while their child kicked and screamed on an unmopped floor.
“I am willing to discuss!”
“And I’m done talking.” I whipped around to examine what he didn’t want me to find.
The room was small, with a lit fireplace, plaid couches, and a patchwork rug.
There was a bookshelf shoved in the corner, overstuffed with novels, board games, and Magic card boxes.
On the glass coffee table was a bowl of soup that smelled almost as good as Wilson’s and an open sketchbook.
On the page was a poorly drawn horse with six legs.
That was my drawing. And on closer inspection, those were my Magic boxes on the shelf.
My books with their broken spines. I collapsed onto the couch, sinking into the cushions like I used to on a couch similar to this one at a house I’d lived in by a lake.
I couldn’t remember the state or time, but I remember how each morning my mom made pancakes, and Dad played his saxophone by the kitchen door.
And I drew horses because we’d left them behind three houses ago and I still wanted one.
My nightmares were the worst here, but the mornings were the best. Dad taught me about deadbolts and dreams and how to address what I was really afraid of.
It wasn’t someone getting inside, he told me. That was just how my fears presented themselves.
I picked up the dull-colored pencil and started drawing next to my childhood doodle. The horse came out clearer, lines defined, and its anatomy made sense.
The nightmares weren’t about someone breaking in. They were about not really having a place to call my own. About the possibility of someone else taking away my chance to feel safe.
The banging started again. It shook the entire foundation. I stood in front of the coffee table, my fingers clutching the colored pencil.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “The sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”
“That won’t matter,” I whispered to myself, but I knew he could still hear me. We’d continue to hear one another in here as long as we wanted to listen. “This place is mine.”
A safe house in the middle of a field. I couldn’t reclaim the entirety of my mind in the next few minutes, but I could carve out my corner of it.
I could take shelter in this corner. While he raged on outside my four walls, I’d remain sturdy behind them.
I had my books, my games, my horses, and my brother’s food.
The world wouldn’t be fixed, but my small part of it could be safe.
I could disengage long enough for the team to lock him away.
He’d fight, and I’d have my peace. No one, not even him, could steal this corner of the world away from me.
“You can’t claim control of your body in there,” he warned.
I shook my head, refusing to believe that for a second. Because while he yelled and raged, I planned on finding a center. Planned on becoming my own anchor.
“You will not have control!” He clawed at the door, but it didn’t give. His voice trembled as he yelled, energy draining with every forced syllable.
Something flashed outside. Lightning and the burning smell that followed in its wake. Another flash followed again, more smoke. He left. I closed my eyes and imagined Elmwood. Wilson was in the kitchen. Frog and Kat in the stable. Esther and her white truck. Rae and her RV.
The horrible yard. The barn in shambles.
The rolling hills. And that elm tree up on the hill, watching down on us as if it’d always been there, because perhaps it had.
Perhaps it always would be, long after we were gone, because it was only for a moment Elmwood was ours.
Something borrowed. And instead of that instability frightening me, it made me smile.
It was temporary, but that was not a sentence. Not a curse. Not a sign that I didn’t deserve more.
It was an invitation to enjoy every inch while I could. I got to be a line in a story.
And whatever that line said, it’d be up to me.