Chapter Eighteen

Vanessa

“He took the couch again,” I whisper.

“Again? Hasn’t it been four nights?”

“I know. And I thought ... after our dinner ... he sort of promised. But then, nothing.”

“Has he kissed you?”

Oh yeah. Yes. Definitely. A lot. The memory of what he did to me yesterday in the kitchen definitely takes center stage in my thoughts. Up on the island, legs spread, his mouth and lips ravaging the space between them ...

“I’ll take that look on your face as a yes.” Margerie squeals.

I sigh heavily, having just explained all this to Margerie at the tail end of our one-on-one in the COE offices, trying to get the photo shoot organized with Monika now that the Wyvern has his hair cut and his purple suit tailored to fit.

“Yes, but he won’t sleep with me in the bed.” Or sleep with me, period. He hasn’t let me touch him for the last three days. I did go down on him ... and I thought it had been great. But then after, he saw that he’d scratched my shoulder on accident, and since then, nothing. Kissing, sure. He wanted to touch me yesterday, but I evaded, feeling uncomfortable. Like ... I’d done something wrong before. Maybe I was ... bad? I wanted to ask ... but was too ashamed. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell Margerie any of that.

Margerie stands up, clutching her laptop to her chest. She claps her free hand down on my shoulder. “I’m not going to lie to you. This is all insane, and you are valid in your feelings of insanity.” But then her hand falls down to my shoulder blade, and she rubs it soothingly, and she gets the strangest expression I’ve ever seen on her. She’s giggly. Like she’s fighting back hysterics. Her touch is comforting—consoling, even—but her face is about to erupt in shrieks.

“What? What is it? Did I do something wrong? Tell me, Margerie! I can do the taxes for a billion-dollar company in my sleep, but I don’t get boys. You know I’m not good at this stuff.”

She’s shaking her head, all but wagging it. Then her lips split to reveal her grin. Her eyes are shining. “You like him.”

I shake my head. “What?”

“You like him. And he clearly likes you back if he’s proposing marriage twenty minutes into your first date.”

I snort. “It’s ... he was kidding. It was a joke.”

“Was it?”

“Of course.”

“If you have questions, don’t evade. Isn’t that what you two talked about? Being open?”

“You think I should ask him what’s with the bed?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t let him make you feel bad. You said that he’s gonna try harder for you, but baby girl, you’ve also got to help him. He’s not a mind reader, and if he’s making you feel bad sometimes, he might not know it. He’s human too. Or, well. Sort of. And he’s in love with you. He’ll fix it if you tell him there’s a problem.”

“Love?” I shriek. “Are you insane?”

She holds up her hands in defense, her laptop a shield. “I’m not going to convince you. I’m here to go over the schedule for Forty-Eight Day and the photo shoot at the old airport. But you’re not the only one who needs to see this. Shandra wants another go at the fabric. She thinks she can get the tigereye gradient in the purple color you were hoping for in time for Forty-Eight Day. It’ll look really good against the airport museum backdrop.

“In the meantime, you are going to heed my words. You like him. He likes you. Try to poke holes in it, if you want, but don’t sharpen your knife when you find that the fabric doesn’t tear. Go talk to him.” She gives my shoulder one final little squeeze, and I nod, my throat all clenched.

“I’ll ... try.”

She rolls her eyes but still smiles and says, “And you’ll succeed, because I’ve never seen you fail at anything. You got this.”

“I got this.”

“He’s in design now. Go get him.”

“I’ll go get him.” I stand up, and Margerie slaps my ass.

“That’s my girl!”

I laugh, feeling strangely giddy at the prospect of confronting him about our lack of sex, and follow Margerie out of our temporary offices in one of the COE domes and into the larger COE tower. We split at the elevator. She goes up to the Wyvern’s floor, and I continue across the atrium, planning to grab Rollo a coffee.

I cross toward the coffee shop in the center of the open space. The line isn’t too long as the lunch crowd hasn’t hit yet. I’m feeling optimistic and excited-nervous as I slip between men and women in power suits, some couriers, and delivery people.

One such delivery person in a generic brown uniform is walking toward me. I’m not focused on them but register their uniform coming closer and closer in my peripheries. I try to veer out of the way, but they counter, moving into my path until I’m forced to place all my attention on them. I trip. “Ooph.” They’re staring straight ahead, not looking at me at all, as they clip my arm with their shoulder.

“Sorry ...” I start to shout, but the word is taken—the world is taken—smashed into a ball and shoved back down my throat as my body spins, colliding with nothing, and I free-fall.

My stomach lurches up into my mouth, and I swallow it into place, and when I blink next, I’m still. I open my eyes, and I know the smell of this place before my eyes even register it. I know where I am.

I can taste the age of the house on my tongue. I can feel the wind from the open window letting in a draft that claps greedily against open cabinet doors. They’re all empty. I don’t need to look again; I already know.

My whole body has been immolated. I can breathe, but I can’t move. I’m not sure if I can’t or if I don’t, but the result is the same. Tears well in my eyes, ready to join the ghosts of tears already in this place.

How am I here? Am I really here? What if this is just ... a dream? A nightmare ... standing in a place I never want to remember and can never forget. In the kitchen of my childhood home, where I was left ...

A rattling grabs my attention, like the hair on the back of my head when she used to shake me for being too slow. I choke. The sound of a flushing toilet echoes down the short hall that connects three small rooms. A tiny bedroom my ... those people who birthed me used, a tinier bedroom that doubled as the place I slept and her closet, and this room. An empty kitchen with a view of a beat-up couch covered in trash and clothes positioned in front of a TV with a big crack down the middle.

The couch is bare, not covered in anything now, and the TV is gone, but it’s still the same couch. The same green fabric worn gray in places. It can’t be the same couch. It can’t be the same room. It feels like ... someone just emptied the place, ran out in a hurry, and never came back ... because they were sent to jail. The house was foreclosed on, and the bank took it, but nobody ever bought it, not even a developer to tear it down. Everyone who set foot near this place knew what it was: cursed.

A door squeaks, and I jolt, recognizing the sound. The hinges of the bathroom door were all built in at wrong angles, so the door sweeps the floor, scraping it before it hits the wall. I look toward it, and where my mother once stood, eyes bleary, hair sticking straight up and out in a bleached-blond mop, appears a dark-haired person, androgynously dressed in a pair of black pants and a boxy black shirt, a heaping of layered gold necklaces weighing down their neck.

They remind me of a Greek neighbor Elena and William had when I first moved in to their house. Their neighbor had always been friendly. They’d never told Elena and William about the one time they caught me with all my worldly supplies, standing at a bus stop in town. I hadn’t taken the bus, in the end, but seeing them drive by—in the direction of Elena and William’s house—had been terror-inducing enough, I’d immediately given up on the idea of running. I’m glad I had.

This person has a small smile strung between their cheeks, but I don’t feel soothed by that. Standing here in this house, looking at this person emerging from a bathroom that I’ve used before ... nothing about this is friendly.

“Hi there, Vanessa. How are you feeling?” they say, smoothing a tanned white hand through their jet-black waves. Their sleeves are cropped short to reveal lean muscles that flex on each subtle motion. “I know you don’t know me, so I thought, hey, what the heck? Why not bring you to a place you do know? I thought that might make you feel more comfortable.”

They grin, ring-covered fingers rapping against the paper-thin wall devoid of pictures, not even stained by the outlines of pictures that once were, because there never were any. “No? It doesn’t? You look a little distressed.” They keep pausing between their words, dark eyes moving over me in a plain assessment. There’s something they’re trying to figure out. If only they’d ask, I’d tell them. I’d tell them anything they wanted to hear to get me out of here.

“You’re a shy, skittish little thing, aren’t you?” They lunge at me, arriving on the other side of the tiny, dinky kitchen island. The laminate cracks under their palms as they press their hands flat to the surface. I flinch back so hard, I hit my head against an open cabinet door. The feel of the hard particleboard covered in peeling plastic and the exact way it hurts as it digs into my skull drags me underneath an icy wave of memories where I drown, screaming.

My hand fumbles for my pocket, shock rendering all my movements clumsy. They don’t try to stop me but watch as I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, and immediately drop it. I’m too scared to pick it up. I don’t want to let this person out of my sight.

They’re leaning forward onto the island that separates us now, their bare forearms down on the cracking material. They’re looking at me with amusement plain in their dark eyes. “I don’t understand how you could be a key. And yet ... here we are.” They sigh, shake their head a little, stand up, and brush a hand through their hair.

“You know, you’re the first key we’ve found. Do you even know who I am? No, I don’t suppose you would. You might work for the Champions ,” they scoff, rings clanging again as they slap the counter, making me jump. “But they don’t trust you enough to tell you anything real. Distract the world with cute photos of the darling couple and pictures of the Wyvern in tight pants, and the world won’t realize they’ve been lied to.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what they’re talking about, don’t know how I’m meant to respond, and frankly, don’t care. I just want out of here.

“Well, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I have just a few questions that, if you answer honestly, will result in my transporting you back to your precious office space, and if you don’t, will result in me locking you in here to starve, just like your parents did when they went on that weeklong bender, right? It’ll be fitting. You’ll die in here as you were always meant to as a child.”

No.

No ...

“Shall we begin?” They stalk around the island, coming to stand on its other side, right in front of me without a barrier to separate us. They smell like sugar and syrup and a splash of darkness that cuts through both. They step right into my space. Place both hands on my hips and pull me close.

“We know that he’s begun his reversion. You’ve been helping with that, documenting his recent heroics and giving us clear evidence of his transition, but has he been recovering his purpose?” I stare at them blankly, feeling dumb, numb with terror. Their fingers squeeze into my hip bones with implied threat, painfully, with nails sharpened to a razor’s edge. “I know you’ve perfected this doe-eyed stare that’s clearly got his fiery hotness so enrapt, but it won’t work for me. You see my eyes? They don’t glow for you. You do nothing for me, darling.

“I haven’t found my key yet. It’s not supposed to be a person. A human ,” they sneer. “You see, I thought our keys would come to us with time. I thought they would be intangible, something encoded in our genetics. I was just ... waiting ... instead of scouring the fucking planet for a human to use to unlock my gate.” Their hands squeeze me even more tightly, hard enough to cause pain, but being here, in this house, I don’t feel it. Pain doesn’t exist. Because it’s like breathing. It’s everywhere.

“You can’t hurt me here,” I whisper, because I’m a fool.

Their eyes round, and looking at them from this close, I feel like I can see a little bit of East Asian heritage, though I know it doesn’t matter. They could be from anywhere but here. Because they aren’t from Earth. And they hate me because they seem to know something about me. It makes me wonder about my first encounter with Roland. He hated me then too. Does he know something he hasn’t told me? Does he know who this is? Are they in cahoots? Is he using me?

Fuck off, Vanessa. Nobody would ever want you ...

“Who are you?” I whisper as their fingers dig in to my skin tighter and tighter.

“Tell me now, and I won’t get angry ... Has Sixty-Two spoken to you about his past?”

I shake my head, though I didn’t mean to; the action came involuntarily, and that seems to make whoever this is even angrier. “He doesn’t remember? Or he doesn’t trust you to know?”

“I don’t know.” Probably the latter.

“You’re telling me that you’re the key to his reversion, the key to his gate, and he hasn’t even bothered to tell you that his memories are coming back? Does anyone trust you with anything? Or are you fucking useless?” You’re so fucking useless, Vanessa.

I don’t respond. My breathing exercises are a fucking joke here. No amount of therapy could have ever prepared me for this. So I retreat, moving deeper and deeper into my mind; the cabinet that was reserved for things I never meant to relive or remember now hangs open, the lock broken, the door bent on its hinges. I lie curled within it, hands bound in the dark.

No ...

No.

You’re a fucking badass . I suck in stale air and jerk violently at the sudden invasion of Rollo’s voice in my thoughts. A good fucking girl. Who runs her own company. He promised me he’d try for me. He could have manipulated me by doing and saying much less. He didn’t need to lie to me about that. Marry me.

My chest shudders as I attempt a feat foreign to me. Bravery. I stutter, “If y-you th-think I’m use-useless, why did you bother asking me? Why don’t you just ask him yourself?” I take in a deeper breath, and my words come out more evenly, acerbically. I spit, “Are you scared of him?”

The whack of their fist against my face doesn’t come as a huge shock. I think if I were standing anywhere else, it might have. But not in here, where my face and body are already so used to it. I barely even feel the pain. It’s a slight burn. My lip took one of their rings, and I taste blood. But I do something I’ve never done before in this wretched, damned place. I don’t keep my gaze on the floor, even after the sting settles. I look back up.

Their eyes meet mine, and I don’t break. I watch their jaw clench. A muscle stands out in their neck. They clench their back teeth. “His behavior is counter to the plan. But ... if you’re not lying and he really hasn’t started to recover his memories, then that would explain it.” They exhale, and I detect relief in their tone as they add, “He might not have even found his map.” They tap my hip, contemplating while my mind fires in shock. The map . My mind instantly snags on the strange squiggles I saw on Rollo’s skin, and I hate myself for being so obvious.

“Has he found the map?” Anger clouds their face. They give my hips a hard shake. “You have him too distracted. Tell Sixty-Two that he needs to get his head out of your pussy and find his weapon, open it, and complete his reversion. He should get his memories back then, and once he’s fully reverted, he’ll be ready.”

“Ready?” I pant. “For what?”

Pain makes its presence known when they squeeze my hips one final time. I still don’t crumble. Not yet. Not here in this kitchen where I’ve crumbled so many times before. At least, not in front of them.

“To lead,” they whisper. I can’t hold back my wince this time, and seeing it, they smile. “But only after he’s finished getting what he needs from you. You can try to delay it, but it is inevitable. He’s started to revert already. You’d best not stand in his path. Because if he finds out you kept this information from him, he’s going to be angry, and then you’ll burn first when he remembers his past. I’m sure of it.”

No.

“No.”

“No?” They smile at me, a condescending thing.

“You’re wrong,” I insist, even as I start to sweat.

They shrug. “Better to be the right hand of the devil than stand in his path, and maybe he’ll let you exist in the new world. At least, for a short time.”

“Or maybe he’ll burn you .”

“You really want to bet on that once he remembers?”

I don’t answer.

They grin even more maniacally. “Why don’t you go help him get his memories back, be a good girl and help him find his map, and when he’s ready to lead us, I’ll remind him to go easy on you.” They give my bruised right hip a condescending pat.

“Who are you?”

“Why don’t you ask the COE?” They lean in abruptly, brushing their lips over my cheek. “I’m number Three.”

They take a step back, and then they just ... disappear.

There’s no rush of wind or swirling smoke. They just are ... and then they aren’t. I sway forward, about to fall, but some strength I didn’t know I possessed keeps me on my feet. I grab the edge of the kitchen island in front of me and clutch it with shaking arms until I’m certain my legs will hold me. Then I turn.

My chest is clenched so badly, each inhale tears at the seams. My face is hot, but when I rub it roughly, trying to get my shit together, I find that it’s dry. I didn’t cry here. Not often. Not until they left me alone like Three just did. But I’m stronger than I was back then because I have people ... who love me ... who care ...

I can do this.

... fucking badass ...

I’m making my way around the island, heading for my phone first and then the open front door, through which I can see the overgrown yard crawling with trash and weeds and memories. The press of ghosts all around me is palpable, and they’re all me, all my childhood, and they each wound me painfully in turn. I make a loud choking sound and reach down, my foot kicking my phone once before I actually manage to bend over and grab hold of it. I catch myself on the floor, staggering wildly as I come back up to stand, and lunge for the front door.

A gust of strength fuels me as I stagger out of the shadows and into the sunlight. My hands are shaking as I hold my phone up to my face. I have a few people I could call, but I scroll past all of them. Number Three believes I have every right to fear him. But I don’t believe people who hurt me. I believe people who look me in the eye and tell me they’ll try for me, who issue me vows of hope.