Exposed (Madame X, #2)(58)

I step into a long, loose dress, wrap myself in a blanket. While away the hours with a book, bored and alone and drowning in self-loathing and disgust. Eventually, the day fades, and I fall asleep on a couch, because I do not want to be in your bed, even to sleep.





ELEVEN


Rain slices like knives forged from ice. I shiver, but not from cold; I bleed. I taste blood in my mouth, feel it spill warm and wet from my head and my hip, dribble down my cheek and drip off my chin. Darkness. All is dark. A pale rectangle of light from a window illuminates a portion of sidewalk and some of the street, the curb between them.

I hear sirens. They sound like the warbles of prehistoric birds, echoing off cliff faces.

I want only to be warm.

I want to not hurt.

My stomach shudders, and I hear a sound. A sob. A scream.

My throat aches, and I realize the sobs and screams emit from me.

I am alone.

I cannot lift my head.

I can stare sideways at the pale scrap of light and wish I could reach it, crawl to it, lie in its warmth. Anything must be warmer than here, where the rain batters me and the cold cracks open my bones, freezes my marrow.

Why am I here? I don’t remember.

I have an idea of horror, dreamed remnants of terror. Smashing glass, twisting metal. Razors splitting open my skull. Hammers bashing my body. Weightlessness. Darkness.

Blood.

So much blood.

A face appears. An angel?

No, too dark, the eyes like glinting shards of night betray too many devoured dreams, speak of nightmares feasted upon.

An incubus.

I fancy I can see his wings spread to either side of his wet, muscular body, thick coiled whipping things like feathered serpents. I blink, and he is only a man.

I blink, and I know his face.

I scream, or perhaps I only try to. He is lifting me, and I see blood on his hand as he brushes my hair away from my eyes.

The world tilts and darkens, and a hole attempts to swallow me from inside out, and then I see the flames. I want to be in those flames, where it is warm. I want to be in those flames. I want to be with those in the flames.

I strain, and iron bands hold me back. I reach for the flames. I peer into them, and I can see a hand, blackening. A shirtsleeve crisping, curling. Perhaps I imagine it all. Perhaps I imagine the flames.

I don’t know. I know I am cold.

So cold.

I know pain is all.

I know the iron bands strapped around me are warm and breath smelling of whisky bathes my face.

I look up, and eyes pierce mine. “Sssshhhh. You’ll be okay. I’ll get you help.” The voice is the texture of a blacked-out room, smooth as velvet, powerful and deep.

I am falling. I fight against gravity, because that way lies darkness, and in the darkness lurks obscurity. I don’t know what that thought means, but I know I must fight.

I lose.

I fall.

Through depthless dark, I fall.

? ? ?

I wake with a start. My voice is hoarse. My throat hurts.

You brush away a flyaway strand of hair. Shush me.

I taste the dream, still.

I push you away. Your touch holds no comfort, your voice no respite from the images haunting my brain. “Get away.”

“It’s me, it’s Caleb.”

“I know.” I struggle for a single deep breath. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”

I sit up, curl the blanket tighter around my shoulders, hunch in on myself, eyes clenched shut so hard I see stars and my eyes hurt. I do not want to share this with you, but I must speak it out into the world so it doesn’t die the death of dreams, lost somewhere between brain and tongue.

“I remember how wet it was,” I whisper. “I remember the darkness. I remember hurting. I remember being so cold. I remember being on the sidewalk and seeing this patch of light and wishing I could just make it to the light, because maybe it would be warmer there. And then you . . . and flames. I feel like—I feel like there was more in the dream, but I can’t remember it. I can’t see it now.”

“But you’re safe now. You’re okay.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m not safe. Not with you. You do not tell me all of the truth. There is no truth. And I’m not okay. I’m a splintered ghost of a person. And I don’t know how to put the pieces together. I don’t even have all the pieces.”

“Isabel—” you begin.

I chop out with my hand to silence you, and make contact with your leg. “No. Shut up. You are an incubus. You lie.”

A moment of silence. And then your voice, cold and distant as you stand up. “Dr. Frankel is here. There’s a clinic a few floors down. He’s setting up there.”

I stand up, let the blanket fall to the floor at my feet. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Do you want anything to eat?” you ask.

“Do not suddenly begin pretending as if you care, Caleb.” I breeze past you.

You seize me in a vise grip. Spun around. Fingers pinch my jaw, as if to pry the mandibles apart. “You will never comprehend how deeply I care.” You release me.

“No, I will not.” I stare up at you. Your eyes are blazing, hot, open, wild, glinting with fury and agony. “Nor do I wish to.” This is a lie.

You stare down at me, jaw muscles clenching and pulsing, eyes darting, seeking something in my gaze. Not finding it, I do not think. “I do not know how—I don’t know how to make you understand. I am not that man.”