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Safe House

… b reathed out, opening her eyes. She had teleported into a bed. Where? Unknown. Shadows cast the room in a dark haze. Her hands glided over cool satin sheets. Her broken leg rested on a mound of firm pillows. More pillows hugged her neck and shoulders.

In the low light sifting between the slats of the window shutters, she fumbled to turn on a lamp at the bed stand. The bed stand displayed prescriptions with her name on it. A plastic bag of her keys, cross necklace, and phone rested on the stand. She opened it and took out her phone. It appeared unharmed by her fall, but the battery was dead. She had to figure out where she was the old-fashioned way. But first, she fastened the chain of her necklace around her neck and touched the pendant.

The luxury of the room jarred her. It had wood paneling with carved filigree. When Tobias mentioned a safe house, he made it sound like a roach motel. Not this. She couldn’t quite remember how she got here. Did Tobias drive her? The morphine fogged her memory.

What time was it? Hell, what day was it? The funk emanating from her and the griminess of her hair indicated awhile since the hospital... since her leg broke in a fall... since the monsters murdered Annie. She flinched three times, reliving the explosion of gunfire that took Annie’s life. She rubbed where a cold sweat gathered at her nape. Her hands trembled. “You don’t have time for this.” She needed to figure out where she woke up.

She discovered a wheelchair propped against the far corner of the bed, dragged her body into it, and wheeled around the room. Through a doorway, she entered an ensuite, palatial bathroom with a glass-encased shower, a deep bathtub, and a sprawling vanity. There, unopened designer-brand necessities had been arranged in neat rows.

She brushed her teeth, tied her hair up, and cleaned herself, administering the worst sponge bath ever, as her experience with them was never self-inflicted or impaired. Clean enough, she looked in the mirror. The cut on her temple had faded into a sallow, yellow bruise. But that wasn’t the most pathetic part of her appearance. The hospital gown was.

She pushed herself back into the bedroom toward a double-door wardrobe. In it, she found sleeveless undershirts, striped boxers, and black socks still in their packaging. Plaid flannel shirts hung off padded hangers. They were too small to fit Tobias. She broke open the plastic packages. One glimpse of the hospital gown, and whoever these clothes belonged to would forgive Marisol for borrowing them.

Putting on clothes prodded her bruises and muscles, reliving the pain experienced by her body. Her broken leg continued to throb with a constant dull pain. The side of her body that slammed against the elevator car had dark purple bruises pooled around her ribs and underarm. When she pulled on her shirt, each bruise stung. She wiggled into a pair of shorts and lassoed a single black sock on her bare foot. Luckily, putting on a flannel didn’t require copious amounts of pain or effort.

Physically spent from dressing, she popped a dose of Percocet. She dry-swallowed the pill, and it forced its way down her esophagus. She wheeled back into the bathroom and cupped her hands under the sink, sipping to wash the pill down. Now she was ready to explore.

Her bedroom door opened to a hallway of windows stretching from floor to ceiling. The place overlooked a lake reflecting the warm pink hues of the setting sun. Dusk. The view would have been exhilarating had she been there under more positive circumstances.

She heard a faint sound of old jazz that must have been coming from a record player, as the sound crackled with age. Either she resided in a haunted house or shared the space with an old man. She tensed as she continued down the hallway, unsure of who or what would listen to such music. Wherever she was, she was far from Shadowhaven.

The hallway opened to a living room with a vaulted ceiling that blended into a dining area and open kitchen. The living room belonged in a time capsule. Thick curtains covered the windows, blocking the waning light of the evening. Tables and bookshelves made of dark, heavy woods brimmed with trinkets and shrouded the open living room with a cave-like appearance. Everything matched a red-white-and-blue color scheme, from the floral patterns of the rug and pillows to the plaid upholstery of the sofa.

Old, beautiful, and lush objects surrounded her, yet she felt no curious wonder. Her heart carried a heavy weight. The weight of Annie’s death. The weight of living in fear.

A baritone voice said, “Welcome to the safe house.”

She turned her wheelchair toward the direction of the voice. Vincent Varian stood behind her. She asked, “What are you doing here?”

“This is my grandfather’s–actually, my–vacation home. I’m usually never here.” Vincent recounted in his affected prep school accent.

She touched Abuelita’s necklace. “Is this a sick joke? ”

“I don’t think so? Detective Quinlan needed a place off the books because he said he can’t trust his own people. Not after the hospital attack.” He put his hands on his hips, resting his thumbs in the loopholes of his jeans. “I, too, am in hiding after my kidnapping incident. The whole world thinks I’m gallivanting in London or Paris. I can never remember which.” Vincent laughed.

Cue an unimpressed eye roll. “Point me the direction home. I’m out of here.”

“We’re a little over an hour west of Shadowhaven. In the Micah National Forest.” Vincent pointed in a vague direction. “I think if you head that direction, you’ll make it, eventually. The terrain makes it a little iffy. Especially in a wheelchair.”

“I’ll order a car. I can survive a couple of goons after me.”

Vincent looked her up and down. “Barely.”

“My family needs me, all right? My dad’s real stupid with money—”

“If it’s money that’s bothering you, let me know what you need. I’ll take care of it. It’s not worth risking your life over money.”

“You can write a check and fix it?”

Vincent nodded. “Like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Marisol held her face in her hands. “That’s so patronizing.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you. ”

“You would have to matter to insult me.”

“Marisol.” His face deflated. “Can we simply agree to be nice to each other while we’re stuck here?”

His imploring face brought on a wave of guilt. She had aimed for cold but landed on cruel. It would be better to avoid all feelings in isolation. She ignored his request with a sigh and wheeled herself toward her bedroom. The quick movement exacerbated her pain. She sucked in a breath as she cradled her side.

“Ice and Epsom salt will help the bruises. I can get those for you,” Vincent called after her.

She glared over her shoulder. “Don’t you have people to do that for you?”

“I don’t tend to keep maids and butlers around.”

After another roll of her eyes, Marisol continued to head toward her room. “I can’t do this.” Time had already ticked away as the Bloodsucker roamed Shadowhaven while she sat stuck on her ass, barely able to move. Her pulse drummed in her ears again, and the mounting anxiety squeezed her chest. Confined. Doted upon. Anything would be better than this situation. Her ribs brushed against the arm of her chair. A sharp pain stabbed into her.

“Why?” Vincent’s sharp and serious eyes poked at her vulnerability the way the wrong movement prodded at her bruises .

Her sinuses stung, threatening tears. “I’m gonna get those bastards that killed her.”

Vincent turned up the side of his mouth. “With the other foot?”

Marisol had the sudden urge to roll into his shins until they bled. Seated with a puffed-up chest, she looked ridiculous—as intimidating as a kitten. If she found the Patron Saint and had him champion her rage, she would be an unstoppable force. “I have powerful friends.”

“They must be very powerful, letting you get hurt like that.” Vincent’s acerbic tone suggested her Patron Saint caused her pain, and she would not allow it.

She clenched her teeth. “You know nothing about them. Or me.”

“I know they wouldn’t be good friends if they encouraged you to pursue vengeance.”

A sardonic laugh escaped her mouth. “Did you gain that bit of wisdom from writing a check?” Her tears blurred her vision like tempered glass.

Vincent turned his gaze away from her.

“Do you know who I am? I’m from the Westside, motherfucker. My brother murdered people. Didn’t even need a gun. He beat a man to death so bad that the cops had to use the guy’s tattoos to identify him.” She cracked a knuckle, though her chin trembled. “And the same blood runs through my veins. Are you shitting yourself now, rich boy? Me and everyone I know will fuck you up if you try to stop me.” Raw pathways of tears streamed from her eyes. She waited for his inevitable freak out. Too much work, he’d say, and he’d demand she leave.

But Vincent crouched and looked up at her. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I made a promise to Quinlan to keep you safe. If it means I suffer your wrath, so be it.”

“Just... leave me alone,” Marisol said with a tinge of regret as she blinked away tears. She rolled to her room and resolved to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Anything. As long as she avoided Vincent.

She dragged herself from the wheelchair onto her bed. Until the numbing effect of the painkiller lulled her to sleep, she grabbed a pillow to scream into it. The muffled scream turned into crying, and the crying turned into wails. Between sobs captured in the fibers of the pillow, she begged time to run backwards, to un-hear the gunshots, to see Annie one more time. She punched the pillow and threw it across the room. It landed without fanfare; its feather filling cushioned the impact.

She looked at the dent in the pillow. She couldn’t even do grief right. Sobs racked her body as she longed for the stone-faced dignity of a widow at a funeral. Sputtering and sniffling, she wasn’t the strong and brave woman she imagined herself to be. She stretched out on the bed, lying on her good side. The weight of her cast pressed her body farther into the mattress. She imagined Abuelita’s soft hands rubbing her back, the way she had when Marisol was a child. Her sobbing subsided into gentle hiccoughs, and then she closed her eyes to sleep.

Drums rumbled as she put on her mask and boxing gloves. String instruments repeated a driving, repetitive song in minor keys. She ran into Annie’s lab. The music shifted into major key, and she knocked the gun out of the Bloodsucker’s hand before he pulled the trigger. With a gut punch and a hook to the jaw, she had defeated him. Annie grabbed her and told her to run. Horns blasted a victorious wall of sound. Evil didn’t win today. She and Annie headed to the elevator doors, pressing the button to escape to their safety. The doors opened into an abyss.

Before Marisol turned around, Annie’s face morphed into rows of circular teeth, pulsing toward the mouth in the center. Marisol recoiled and lost her footing. She fell into the darkness, screaming Annie’s name before hitting the bottom with a jolt.

Outside her body, she watched herself bleed out. She moved her lips and tried to call out for help. Shock paralyzed her. Darkness bound her. Her fear demanded a scream, but more darkness poured into her mouth like motor oil and drowned her.

She was numb and alone.

“Marisol!” Vincent shook her awake.

Her breathing strained. She inhaled short spurts of air. Upon exhaling, her breath felt trapped within the muscles of her neck. She flailed, trying not to suffocate. Her hands struck against Vincent’s body.

“You’re having a panic attack. Look into my eyes and breathe.”

She found his eyes, even in the dark. Marisol braced her palms against his shoulders. Still, she only took sips of air.

“I’m going to hold you. You need to listen to my breathing and copy it.” Vincent embraced Marisol. She couldn’t move; she could only focus on her breath. Through her desperate gasps, she tried to listen to Vincent’s breathing. Her high-pitched wheezes drowned the sound out.

Then, against his body, she felt her rapid heartbeat vibrate back to her. Where was his heartbeat? She searched for it, squeezing tighter, and finally felt a slow, steady heartbeat, like ocean waves hitting the beach on a clear day. She listened to his breath. Deep and calm. She synchronized the pace of her breathing, as his strong arms pressed her against his solid body.

She curled against him. “Vincent? I’m scared.”

“Then I’m not letting you go yet.” He rested his cheek against the top of her head .

He held her so close, even though she was a mess of grimy skin and oily hair. She said, “That’s stupid. I haven’t showered.”

“I don’t care.” Vincent stroked the back of her head.

“I’m disgusting.”

He shrugged.

“You can’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”

“Of course you do.” He adjusted his embrace and settled back onto the bed, and she lay down in his arms.

She nuzzled her head into the crook between his collarbone and shoulder. He smelled faintly sweet and woodsy, like sandalwood. Before she fell asleep again, she could smell a trace of electricity about him, like the atmosphere during a lightning storm.