Chapter 6
Alanna
The first consultation is at a sleek, minimalist clinic downtown.
The waiting room, filled with people sporting visible (and seemingly regrettable) tattoos, makes me feel even more out of place.
With my cardigan sleeves tugged down, I keep my arm tucked against my side.
When my name is called, I practically bolt into the consultation room, eager to get this over with.
The specialist is a brisk woman with shrewd eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor who gestures for me to show her my arm. Pulse hammering, I slowly push up my cardigan sleeve. The mark sits there under the harsh fluorescent light, its iridescent colors looking far too alive.
Please, please, please just look like a tattoo, I beg internally. Don’t glow. Don’t swirl. Don’t do anything weird. The woman’s professional detachment is the only thing I find remotely comforting.
“Hmm,” she hums, tilting her head. “I don’t recognize this ink. The pigment quality is unusual. It almost looks like it’s shining. Very unique.”
“It was, um, a new type of ink. Experimental,” I fumble, my lying tally now getting quite high.
The specialist clicks her tongue, then begins to poke and prod at my forearm.
I hold my breath, hoping my sought-after solution is at hand, but with every clinical touch of her finger, I flinch internally, half-expecting the mark to flare up in protest and send out a pulse of light that I won’t be able to explain.
My palms are sweating as I practically vibrate with the effort of willing it to behave.
“I’m sorry. We can’t help you. We won’t remove a tattoo that’s using experimental ink like this.”
Her words hit me like a hundred-pound weight dropped onto my chest. “Why?” The reason won’t make a difference, but I need to understand.
“Oh? Well, something could go wrong. And we won’t be held liable.”
“I could sign something!” I exclaim, grasping at straws. “I won’t hold you liable, no matter what happens.”
“No, no. I’m afraid we just can’t do it.”
With that, the woman stands, waiting by the door for me to see myself out.
Holding back my tears, I hurry away from the clinic trying to console myself with the fact that I still have two more consultations.
But the second appointment is a blur of polite refusal and mounting despair. A horrible possibility takes shape—what if the mark can’t be removed?
All available evidence points to an answer that I do not want to accept.
And so, I sit in a hard chair in a softly lit, somewhat dated room in the third clinic, peeling off my cardigan to show the mark yet again.
This specialist, a woman in her mid-forties with lightly curled platinum blonde hair, takes one look and says, “Oh. Interesting.”
“I know it’s unusual. Can you get rid of it?”
The woman inspects it, as all the others did.
She purses her lips lightly, then smiles comfortingly.
“Unusual, that’s one way to put it, dear.
But yes, I’d certainly be happy to book you in.
It would require multiple sessions, of course, especially with its size and .
. . complexity. You can trust, though, that we have an excellent success rate.
Now if you’ll just answer a few questions about your medical history—”
My hopes buoy. While the woman speaks, however, the mark’s light seems to swirl faster, to my alarm. I’m trying to subtly cover it with my hand without drawing attention when an unexpected jolt shoots through my mind.
A rush of clarity, of absolute certainty, slices through the specialist’s smooth words.
Abruptly, I know that this woman is lying.
The woman has no idea what my “tattoo” is, and she doesn’t think her treatment will be able to help at all.
She intends to extract as much money as possible from me, for a service she knows she can’t provide.
This isn’t just a hunch. It is an unassailable fact. And now that the veil is lifted, I clock the insincerity behind the woman’s eyes and in her cloying smile. She can practically smell my desperation, and thinks she can get several sessions’ worth of fees before I realize it isn’t working.
I fight to keep my lip from curling and carefully pull my cardigan back on.
“On second thought, I need some time to evaluate.” Now it’s me with the cloying smile. “You know, before I book in.”
The specialist’s smile falters for a fraction of a second, the mask slipping just enough to betray the flicker of annoyance beneath. “Are you sure, dear? If you really want it gone, I suggest you secure your appointment now. Most places won’t even touch something like this.”
“Quite sure.” I’m already moving toward the door. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”
I don’t wait for a response, pushing past the specialist and out of the suffocating room. I flee through the waiting room, past unsuspecting clients, and onto the sidewalk.
The sunlight is harsh, the city noise louder than usual. The back of my neck prickles, and for a moment I feel as though I’m being watched. I spin around, feeling paranoid, and, sure enough, nothing is there.
Maybe that woman is looking at me from inside the clinic. Ugh. The clinic. The first two consultations were both failures, but this last one was worse. Much worse.
What was that flash of insight? Yet even now, I don’t doubt the information I gleaned. Even if my mind is playing tricks on me, once I saw the truth it was impossible to unsee. It was written in the details, in the micro-expressions of the woman and the way she tried to pressure me before I left.
I set out in the vague direction of my apartment.
But I need to think, and I’m not ready to be home just yet.
Lately, I swear my books are whispering.
It is disquieting, to say the least. I tried recording it (on the ancient laptop, for whatever that’s worth) but I can’t get any evidence that it’s real.
The appointments took all day, and now the early evening air, still hot, carries the scent of distant barbecues, the sound of boisterous laughter drifting from outdoor patios.
I carry on, feeling out of step with the rest of humanity, before coming to a sprawling park nestled at the heart of the city.
Veering into its lush greenery, I find an empty bench tucked under a soaring maple tree, its leaves softly rustling in the gentle breeze. With a weary sigh, I sink onto the worn wood, and feeling resigned, I shrug off the cardigan, revealing the intricate, shimmering mark.
Rotating my arm, I study it from every angle, as if a change in perspective might reveal its true nature.
What is it? Why me? I must consider this logically.
All the peculiarities started a week ago, with the crystal in the book.
All evidence points to the crystal being the cause of it.
And the mark is in the shape of the crystal.
Ergo, I need to learn more about the crystal. With more information, I will be able to determine what is going on, and most importantly, how to make it stop.
That line of reasoning leads me to the only available conclusion. The book. It’s my single potential source of knowledge at this time.
And that means . . . going back to the library after all.
Damn it.
Well, there’s no way I am going back to the library after-hours again, so it will have to wait until tomorrow.
As the last sliver of sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and deep oranges, there’s a subtle shift in the park.
The people seem to have drifted away. The gentle breeze that rustled the maple leaves has died, replaced by an unnerving stillness. A shudder goes down my spine.
Again, that creeping sensation, the feeling of unseen eyes, heavier and more focused than earlier outside the clinic.
The shadows under the trees expand until I wonder if something is wrong with my vision.
I try to blink away the darkness, to no avail.
Then, a fluid shape flickers at the edge of my periphery.
Just like in the stacks. My muscles lock, freezing me in place.
Not again.
Its form is indistinct, a ripple in the twilight rather than a solid object, yet I know, with another flash of certainty that chills me, that it is here for me.
The hair on my arms stands on end, and a primal fear, older than language, seizes me.
My voice sticks in my throat and I can’t even scream.
A moment later, two pinpricks of light pierce the deepening gloom beneath the maple trees, an unnatural inky purple, gleaming with an inner intensity that seems to draw the surrounding darkness toward them.
Shifting shadows start to coalesce around these nascent eyes, solidifying into a vaguely animalistic shape, as if formed from the very absence of light.
Tendrils of smoke twist together in imitation of sinewy muscles, at once both ursine and feline, creating a terrifying impression of brutal strength and coiled readiness.
Wisps of blackness snake out from its forming limbs, twitching and reaching.
My nostrils flare from a metallic scent in the air.
The glowing eyes fix on me, and I stumble backward. My only thought: Thank god Em didn’t come.
The tendrils twitch faster, and the hulking shape takes a hesitant step, its movements jerky and unnatural, as if learning to inhabit a physical form. The air crackles with anticipation, thick with a palpable dread that tastes like ash and iron.
I turn to run, but when I take my eyes off it, it suddenly appears in front of me. With a swift, terrifying lunge, it launches toward me, those gleaming eyes burning into mine as what looks like an arm whips out, reaching, grasping, aiming to ensnare.
I scramble away, the Thing’s limb swiping through the air where I was only a millisecond before.