Chapter 11 #2
I didn’t respond, my mind running a million miles an hour.
This is insane … Evil, right there, hiding in my bedside table.
Had it leached out? Touched my already disturbed mind and latched on?
What if all this was some figment of my imagination influenced by the stone?
Or, worse still, what if this whole thing had been a hallucination?
Cillian, the stone, the beast; all some distorted vision my mind had created in an insomnia-induced meltdown.
My nails dug into my palms, and my knees quivered.
As hyperventilation set in, I flew from my seat and made straight for the balcony.
Breathe; I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—stop. Assess.
I homed in on my breathing. In: one, two, three. Out: one, two, three.
With calculated breaths, I started my process of grounding myself.
My fingers locked around the table’s edge: touch.
The towering redwoods: see. The earthy aroma in the autumn air: smell.
The distant rush of the river’s current: hear.
I repeated them over and over until my chest rose and fell at a steadier pace.
Touch, see, smell, hear. Relax. There’s no imminent danger at this exact moment.
My rapid heartbeat finally began to slow.
Though few things could pull me from a panic attack once in full swing, I’d caught it early enough this time.
A few seconds later, Cillian peeked his head through the French doors. “You okay? Would you like some company out here?”
I nodded, the forest blurry through the lingering brain fog. He wrapped a blanket around my shoulders—the small gesture warming me to my core—before easing into the chair across from me and following my sight line into the trees.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know this is a lot. I shouldn’t have laid it all out like that. I should have—”
“Tell me the rest.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind revisiting this another time. I’m not going anywhere.”
His fleeting promise gave me pause; the idea of such a thing was unbelievable.
Nobody stayed. But regardless of the sincerity behind his words, my stance remained the same.
“No, I need to know. I’ve been looking for answers my entire life, it feels like.
I understand that some of those answers might not be ones I like or even planned for, but …
any insight you have, I need to know. What else happened in your dream? ”
He leaned back with a heavy sigh, tucking his hands behind his head.
“The creature threatened me, of course, demanding the stone. I told him I didn’t have it.
The next thing I knew, I had claws pierced through my right shoulder, my pockets ransacked through, and the stone found its way into the beast’s hands.
I still don’t get it. I must have … must have done a transfer spell in my sleep or something?
But I can hardly manage one when I’m awake, so I doubt that was it.
” He paused to suck in a deep breath. “Anyway, long story short, I woke up, and it was gone, leaving me instead with this pretty little brand on the back of my leg.”
“Same with me, only I woke up with it.”
“Does the beast know you have the stone?”
My heart fluttered, threatening to revive my narrowly avoided attack all over again, but I fought it. I pressed my eyes shut and clenched onto the table for stability. “I think so, yes.”
He leaned forward. “Then you have to be cautious, overly cautious even. If the beast knows you have it, he’ll stop at nothing to get it back.”
My mind replayed the vicious attack on my birth mother, the image spiraling out of control, repeating and repeating and—“Okay, I changed my mind, that’s enough dream talk for tonight. Can you show me another magic trick or something? Please? Distract me.”
“Of course. But hear this, Fey Masterson: My magic is no trick.” He smiled, expression playful. “It’s art.”
He clapped both hands around his talisman, and the garden below came alive.
Rose petals, orange maple leaves, and whole daisies heeded his call.
One after the other they fluttered into the open air above us, Cillian’s hands swirling and jutting, skillfully placing them in their rightful places.
A giddiness came over me, reminiscent of the expectation of Christmas morning, soothing the acidic leftovers of my anxiety and replacing it with a feeling I could only guess was … peace.
“When is your birthday?” he asked, voice husky.
“Huh?”
“Your birthday, what day?” His grin widened, hands now swirling in tiny circles, the petals and leaves suspended above.
I raised an eyebrow. “February nineteenth, why?”
“Ah, we have a cusp baby. Though I would wager you align far more with the Pisces side of things, if I were to guess.”
“Hold on a dang second, you speak astrology?”
“You’d be wise to accept it now, little shadow, I am a man of many interests. Or didn’t I warn you I was more than just a pretty face?” He chuckled, his hands darting here and there as the petals aligned with two star-patterns.
“Oh man.” I laughed alongside him. “With that kind of pride, you have to be Leo!”
“Am I really that transparent?”
A clever, albeit a tad ridiculous, idea came over me. “Afraid so, Lionheart.”
“Lionheart? Okay, now I’m afraid that little attack you had might have depleted the oxygen from your brain or something. What kind of nickname is that?”
“Well, you’re a Leo, which is the lion of the zodiac, and you claim your magic is art. So, put lion and art together: lionheart.” I twiddled my fingers in a jazz hands gesture.
“Wow, that’s … something,” he teased. “I’m assuming you don’t take name requests then?”
“Afraid not. If I didn’t get to pick my nickname, then you don’t get to pick yours either. Sorry, them’s the rules.”
“You and your rules.” He smirked. “Lionheart … you know what, I think I could get used to that. It sounds nice when you say it.”
He pinned the last leaves in place, and goose bumps crawled up my arms as I took in his creation overhead: Leo and Pisces, outlined in vivid color. “It’s amazing.”
“It’s missing something.” One hand on his chin, he grasped his necklace again.
The electric purr whirled around us, and with a wave, every petal and leaf sparked to life: brilliant pink flames, orange flames, purple, and yellow, each a reflection of their inherent colors.
“Cillian … it’s beautiful,” was all I could muster. A silly thing to say for a sight that grand.
“Yes, you are,” he whispered, eyes alight.
“What?”
“I said, yes, uh …” He cleared his throat. “Yes, they are. The, uh, the stars I mean.”
But I’d heard him; the slip that betrayed a small truth he’d tried to bury.
I decided right then and there I wanted to know every last one of those truths.
I looked him over, his green eyes tinged in orange light, and I realized a hidden truth of my own.
It wasn’t those secrets alone I wanted to know.
I wanted to know … him.