Chapter 10
I ran.
From myself, from the oozing burns on my palms, from the hellish stone, but no matter what dark hall I turned down, I couldn’t escape.
Because how do you escape your own head?
You can’t. My chin trembled, pulse hammering in my ears.
I tried time and again to calm myself as I always did.
One thing you can see, one you can touch, one you can—there’s no way.
There’s just no freaking way! All of this, it had to be some side effect of the medication, or …
or my mind had finally snapped. Cracked beyond repair.
I sprinted down the grand staircase, flipped the gigantic lock on the front door, and crumpled on the steps drenched in moonlight.
I hung my head, a lump solidifying in my throat as a vision of my mom’s face washed over me.
Not from my nightmare, but rather in the harsh reality I’d glimpsed in her eyes right before she’d lost her mind forever.
God, was this it? The start of a downward spiral into madness?
Maybe it was in my blood all along. Maybe I’d never had a shot at escaping my fate.
Who was I kidding, my sanity sailed off to sea the second I walked out that window.
How stupid, thinking it’d been an isolated lapse in sanity.
No, this … this was me, and this darkness my own.
Medication, sleep, therapy, it all wouldn’t do a damn thing. My demons were immune.
Wet cheeks cast to the sky, I let out a steamy breath against the endless, starlit void.
Maybe I should have kept running. So, I couldn’t pursue art like I’d always wanted.
In the end, solitude had always been the true goal, but …
My shoulders slumped. I’d be doing everyone around me a favor, sparing them of the absolute chaos I inspired and—
“Fey?” Cillian’s voice cut through, settling over me like a security blanket I never asked for, but needed. “What happened? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” I turned away, wiping my cheeks with my sleeve.
He closed the space between us, eyes frantically searching my face, and set himself at my side. “You don’t look fine.”
“Well, I am, so you can go.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on. Talk to me, please.”
A sinister laugh tickled the back of my teeth as I spun toward him, any attempts to save face carried away on the wind.
“Talk to you? You want to talk? Alright, let’s talk.
How about this, huh?” I stuck my hands out, palms raised.
“Let’s talk about how I’m trapped in some stupid, fucked-up dream that won’t go away even when I’m awake!
Let’s talk about these burns that only I can see because they’re a figment of my nightmares, but I feel them blister and ooze with no way to—”
He grasped my wrists gently and drew them close, his gaze meeting mine again. “Who did this to you?”
“Really?” I scoffed. “I’m here losing my mind, and you want to joke?”
“I’m not joking,” he ground out, his subtle accent suddenly sharp and thick.
His index finger outlined the shape of my hands twice over, careful not to touch the bubbled skin, and my gut sank. He mirrored the singed ridges, following where they led and where they ended, a rush rolling through me. He—he saw them too.
“I’m going to ask you again,” he whispered. “Who. Did. This. To. You?”
I pulled my hands back, catching a finger on his coat, and a scream escaped me.
Invisible needles raced up my arms, pricked at every nerve ending along their path.
Tears swelled as his hand rested on my knee.
And I felt it. Felt it the same as that night in the library when his skin brushed mine—the warmth, comfort.
Clear and sharp and real. Welled-up tears spilled down my cheeks. “You can really see it?”
“How could I not? It looks like somebody dumped a vat of hot oil on you!”
He shot to his feet, breath heavy as he paced about the top stair, thumb and forefinger gripped tight around the bridge of his nose. My thoughts began to snowball again, wondering and catastrophizing.
“What? What are you thinking?”
Cillian’s brow scrunched. “Nothing.”
“What?” I asked again. “You have to tell me what you’re thinking or I’ll fill in the blanks on my own and … well, that never ends well for someone like me.”
“I want to murder them, okay? Whoever did this to you, I want to rip them the fuck apart!”
My racing mind stilled just like that. He wanted to protect me? I looked him over. But … “How do you know it wasn’t an accident?”
His pacing halted. “Well, was it?”
I shook my head.
“That’s what I thought.”
For a moment we remained quiet, neither of us sure what to say. Finally, he let out a sigh, releasing his balled fists. Without another word, he leaned down, slid his hand under my elbow to help me stand, and carefully wrapped my arm around his waist for support.
“Come on. Let’s get you some ice.”
A wave rolled through my center. Twice now he’d offered me cryptic, half-assed answers to my—in all honesty—incredibly understandable questions.
He’d seen the creature in my nightmares, but brushed it off.
Stayed up with me that night in the library, convincing me he empathized with my pain.
Then, poof! Ghosted me like it was nothing.
Not to mention, he’d not only known where to find me tonight, but knew it hadn’t been some fluke accident.
This was more than mixed signals; this shit was straight up whiplash.
I tore from his hold, though a part of me wanted nothing more than to stay there, hidden beneath his arm for reasons I couldn’t explain. “How did you know?”
“What are you—”
“Don’t give me that. You knew this wasn’t an accident. You knew! How?”
He forced a smile, brow creasing. “Okay, okay. Ice first, then we’ll talk, okay? You don’t want those blisters to fester.”
I took another glance at the burns, red and shiny, pained by the light breeze across them. Ice did sound amazing. “All right. But you owe me answers.”
“Of course.”
Silent, he led on to the nurse’s office hidden down a long hallway adjacent to the dining room.
Twin beds lined either side, a puke-green blanket folded at the foot of each.
Unimpressive, but functional. After setting me down on the nearest cot, he started toward the stacked cabinets along the left wall, fading into the background as the nightmare played back in rapid succession.
My finger twitched as the cloaked woman’s wicked stare reflected in my mind’s eye.
She’d looked downright murderous. Disturbed.
Oh God. What if she came back? I already had to hide from the beast night after night, if she came back too …
Panic snagged in my chest as I flipped my hands over.
What if these burns weren’t all she aimed to do to me? I might never sleep again!
Breathe. In, out. In and out.
I clenched my eyes shut until my breathing leveled, and set my focus on Cillian instead. One drawer, then the next; he found every item along his hunt with ease.
“How do you know where everything is?” I asked.
“I’ve had my fair share of late-night excursions for medical reasons too.” Lips tight, he made his way to the sink and ran a well-worn rag under the faucet.
“What, you accident prone too?” I pushed out a weak laugh.
“Nightmare prone, actually.”
His admission made my spine stiffen. Sure, he’d mentioned he’d had nightmares, but physical ones? “You mean … like mine?”
“Not exactly. Mine were more my fault. You know, giving myself a damn concussion. That sort of thing.”
He started toward me. Expression indecipherable as he crouched down, he turned my hands palms up and laid a gel ice pack wrapped in the wet washcloth over them.
The chill sank in, soothed me. So good I could almost cry, but instead I nodded.
His nightmares weren’t like mine, but in some small way his admission made me feel a little less alone.
Again, he returned to the sink, though this time he came back with a glass of water and a small pill pinched between his fingertips.
“Here, tilt your head back.” He motioned, but I didn’t move. “What?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Would you like to hold the glass yourself? By all means, you’re welcome to try, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You know, considering.”
A roll of his eyes and he gestured again.
With a sigh, I gave in, tilted my head back, and opened my mouth.
His hand grazed my lip as the pill came to rest on my tongue, the warmth sending a shiver up my spine, but I swallowed it down along with the medicine.
Roxie had warned me. He didn’t stick around.
Hell, I’d witnessed as much myself. Yet, for some idiotic reason, my body reacted to him of its own volition.
It’s just a chemical reaction, nothing more.
I took a swig of water—sloppily I might add—and met his stare. “Why are you helping me?”
He pursed his lips. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. You made it pretty clear you didn’t want to talk to me. So, why help now?”
“Is that what you think? That I don’t want to talk to you?”
My eyes dropped to the floor. “I’m not sure what to think, honestly.”
He ran a hand through his hair as he sat beside me and lifted my chin. “Nothing could be farther from the truth.”
I met his gaze, an electric charge rushing through my limbs, and I swear the emerald in his eyes swirled, danced, the motion somehow …
soothing. God, what is wrong with me? One smile, one vague display of interest and I was putty in his hands.
Ridiculous! From day one he’d been a neon sign blinking trouble, yet there I was.
Alone with him, opening up for the second time, when the plan was never to lay down roots.
What was it about him that made me want to throw my closely clutched plans to the wind?
To deny the very thing I’d sworn myself to years ago: Don’t let anyone get too close.
No. I wouldn’t, couldn’t let that happen.
Despite the urge to stay there, lost in his eyes, I pulled back. “Pretty words, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“Why am I helping you, little shadow? Because … well—it’s easier if I just show you.” He stood and dropped his plaid pajama bottoms in one fell swoop.
I whipped my head to the side. “Whoa there! Take a girl to dinner first, will you?”
He snickered. “Oh, come on. It’s not like that. Just look, will you?”
Warmth in my cheeks, my head rotated back toward him—slow and steady—to find his lower half concealed by purple plaid boxers.
Not sure whether I was disappointed or relieved, I watched as he stepped closer and pivoted his right knee.
He pointed to his calf, and my eyes widened.
A scar, healed but risen from the severity of its infliction, glared back.
In the center of it all lay a brand: a vertical eye, staring straight at me.
My fingers went numb, an unnerving sensation settling in my gut.
This was no accident. Someone had done that intentionally.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“Honestly, I have no idea. You asked if I had dreams like yours … I did, once. It left me with this.” He pulled his pants up and came to rest at my side again.
My breath caught. “That came from a dream? What kind of dream?”
“It, uh …” He shuffled. “Promise you won’t judge? It’s … odd.”
“Cillian. I walked out a second-story window, for shit’s sake, it doesn’t get much weirder than that.”
“You say that now.”
I blinked. Waited for the punchline that never came. “Okay?”
His brow pinched, the mandala inked on the side of his temple scrunching. “It was about an ancestor of sorts. A witch … like me.”
A witch. So, he did know what the stones on his necklace meant then. Interesting. “Hey, no judgment there. I dabble in tarot and crystals myself.”
“Not like that.” He squinted. “Sentient magic.”
My lip rose. “Wait, you talking wands and magic spells here?”
“More like control over the elements.”
Before I could convince myself to hold it back, a scoff slipped past my lips. Seriously? He was messing with me. Had to be. That stuff existed in books and movies, sure, but real-life magic was less hocus-pocus, more herbs and law of attraction. “Come on, be real.”
“My abilities are as real as those nightmares you suffer from, Fey,” he said with unbridled conviction.
I looked over my burnt palms. If someone had told me such a thing was possible, I’d have laughed them off, yet he’d believed me without a second thought.
But … magic? Seriously? Like D&D-style control over the elements kind of magic?
Impossible. Still, for shits and giggles, I said, “All right then, prove it.”
A wickedly handsome grin caught his cheeks. “Gladly.”