Page 26 of Inked & Bloodbound
He slides his leather jacket off, revealing a pristine white cotton T-shirt that clings to his chest. He smiles as he hangs it on one of the ceramic swans adorning the top of my flea-market coat rack. “Sure. No problem,” he says, slipping off his boots and placing them neatly next to my row of hospital Crocs. “Is this okay?”
“Perfect,” I say, leading him toward the living room. I glance back over my shoulder at him. “Nice to see you clean and showered for a change.”
“I thought it was time,” he replies, and I can hear the laugh in his voice.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” I say, gesturing for him to sit on the couch.
He shakes his head. “I’m good. Thanks.”
His eyes dart around the space, and those nerves bubble up again as he surveys all my things, surveying them with a hint of amusement playing across his face. I drop down awkwardly next to him and try to follow his gaze, wondering what he must be thinking about me. About my things.
“I really like your place,” he says eventually. “It’s very…you.”
I don’t know what that means, but I choose to take it as a compliment. I mutter a thank you and suggest we get started by lighting a few candles on my coffee table. I click the safety lighter and turn to face him, gesturing to the items I’ve bundled together.
“I think this is everything, right? I have the bolsita Paloma gave me and a little bowl of salt there. It’s Maldon. Is that the right kind? Wait, does it even matter? I think I might have some of that pink Himalayan salt in the back of a cupboard, but I’m not sure?—”
“This is perfect,” he interrupts, grabbing the bowl and thumbing through the flakes. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it sooner, but I have to leave in an hour. I have somewhere else I need to be.”
Why am I so disappointed by that revelation? What was I expecting? That he’d stay for a few hours and maybe rail me after? Maybe a few hours of spontaneous, no-strings passion with the world’s most beautiful man?
Sure, Lil. That’s gonna happen. For fuck’s sake. Get a grip.
“Con permiso, espíritus de luz,” he says, sprinkling pinches of salt around us.
The room stills, and my eyelids become weighted. My body sways involuntarily as I’m enveloped by a blanket of heaviness, but I don’t fight it. I close my eyes and let myself sink deeper into the familiar trance state.
The living room fades away—the soft cushions beneath me, the scent of blown-out candles, even Cassini’s presence. In its place, that empty room materializes around me, just like Paloma taught me. My bare feet pad across the cool floor as I drag myself toward the window.
This time, instead of just pressing my ear to the glass, I reach for two brass hooks screwed into the sash. I know what to do—it’s instinctive. I loop my fingers under them and push up gently, staring out into the swirling night beyond the window. An endless sea of black punctuated by a blizzard of silver trails that loop and twist in frenetic patterns across the sky.
The window cracks an inch, and a deluge of voices pours into my head. It feels like hundreds of them, all talking at once. Whispersjumbled with yelling and speaking, singing, crying. So many voices. So much joy. So much pain.
Cassini’s voice is somewhere in the distance. He feels far away, but the sound anchors me. “Focus, Lily. Follow one. Just one.”
I concentrate on blocking out the other sounds and trying to follow a single thread. One calls out to me from the dark, and I chase it. Locking on to it through the tangle of chaos. As I grasp it, the fuzzy edges firm and pulsate, bathing me in warmth and familiarity. I am safe here with this one. I know it.
A fractured voice echoes in the distance, getting gradually louder and clearer as it edges closer to me. “Hey, look. It’s Blondie! Hey, Blondie, over here.”
“Hello?” I call back into the void. “Is someone there?”
“You remember me, kid?” it replies. The intonation is gruff but kind. It’s a man’s voice, laced with a heavy southern charm.
I suck in a slow breath, and the other voices melt away until I hear only him.
“Blondie,” he echoes.
“Harold?” I breathe. I don’t have to think. I just know.
“That’s right, darlin’. What are you doing here? Never thought I’d see you again.”
Harold Overton. He was a patient. I remember him now. He died a few months ago after a massive heart attack. We stabilized him, but he was DNR and very adamant about it. In a lucid moment, he told me, “When it’s my time to go, it’s my time.”
I was with him, waiting for his wife to come when he closed his eyes and slipped away. I sat with him for some time after, marking time until she arrived. Holding his cooling hand whilst I shared mundane details about my life. I squeezed his fingers and told him how blessed I was to have met him. No one should be alone when they pass.
“Harold? Where are you?” I ask, tears pricking my eyes.
“Somewhere in between.” His voice sounds amused. “Listen, Blondie, I need you to do something for me. Can you get a message to my Irene?”