Chryslantha.
“How long since you last uttered that name, my lord? How long since you last thought of me?”
A lifetime.
Cal embraced her. She fit like the other side of a puzzle fragment.
“Excuse us, Lord MacDonnell,” she said.
James bowed to her as he, too, turned the color of blood and faded away.
You are the last.
“A noble guess?”
Not a guess. The order of my guides has been relative to my closeness to them. There’s no one left after you.
“Are you sure about that?”
Cal dropped his eyes. He couldn’t look at her.
“I gave you my maidenhood. My value to my father as a bride is not as great as it once was.”
There will be no shortage of suitors for your hand, Chryslantha-and not because of your dowry. You are the manifestation of beauty and wisdom. The ancients would have built you a temple. A fop would convert to your charms.
“Yet, I cannot convert you from your marriage bed…”
I… uh…
“… Nor is it my place to, since I am only a manifestation of Chryslantha from your thoughts.”
She placed her hand in his and guided him to a pool of water. In the reflection, Cal saw Cat, Brianna, and the two strangers from the tenement fight, sitting around in his living room. They were having a heated discussion.
“This is reality. The red-haired woman hails from the Blue Forest. She is losing her appeal for help from the others.”
How do you know this?
“We are in the room. Your wife is prepared to take you to a hospice and bring the authorities into this matter.”
That would be bad.
“Agreed. I will release you from this metaconscious trance to address this problem.”
Wait! I need to know about the accident. How did the mission fall apart?
“The answer you seek is not mine to give. The runes are designed to reveal only your past in Aandor. The spell caster knows nothing of your years on this earth.”
The world melted away to be replaced by the whiteness again. Cal felt as though he were hurdling upward at a fantastic rate, but there was no point on the horizon by which to measure this ascent, only whiteness and the sensation of defying gravity.
Suddenly, darkness surrounded him and a fantastic weight pressed his chest as gravity reasserted itself. He heard echoes.
“Maybe Red can take you to the hospital on her flying carpet,” a male voice said. The body that belonged to the voice passed near him. It was the young man. Cal mustered all his remaining strength and reached out in the direction of the footsteps. He’d captured a wrist.
“Show them,” Cal tried to shout, but heard only a whisper of himself.
“Show them what?” the young man said.
“My lord, magic is in short supply on this earth. My illusion has a high casting cost…”
“Show them,” he whispered again.
The sensation of rising reversed itself. He fell through his own body, like Icarus from a blackened sky into an infinite achromatic sea. Such was the speed of his descent, the burn of the wind against his cheeks and forehead, that he lost all confidence in the knowledge this was a mental, not a physical, realm. The wind song deafened him. He thrust his arms before his face and shut his eyes tight in anticipation of the impact. And then silence.
He opened his eyes. His face was nestled in a silk pillow, his arms underneath it. He was in a perfumed feather bed with satin sheets. A soft hand touched his cheek. He looked to his side and there was Chryslantha, naked. He, too, was undressed. She rolled beside him, put her arms around his neck and straddled him with a smooth ivory leg.
“Let us finish the lesson, my lord,” she said, and kissed him.
CHAPTER 10
1
Daniel awoke with a start. He was on the floor, back to the door, sitting in a puddle of his own urine. He opened the one eye that wasn’t swollen and encrusted. His muscles ached, including some that hadn’t been hit. He’d slept (if one could call it sleep) in an awkward position for most of the night. The tendons between his neck and left shoulder felt as if they’d been cut short and resoldered, and when he turned his head it was as though an embedded pick was jabbing at his sinews.
The dawn rays streamed through the blinds. The golden dust in the slanted beams danced and shimmered. His aching fingers were swollen and stiff. Slowly, the boy unbuttoned his shirt, wincing every so often from the pain. He had to sit on the bed to pull his pants off. When he was done, he took a moment to catch his breath. He opened the door to his room without apprehension. Clyde would be dead asleep at this hour.
Daniel slipped quietly into the bathroom, ran his trousers under the shower and wrung them before throwing them in the hamper. Then he stepped under the water and let the hot droplets pelt him. They stung as they hit the purple tie-dyed landscape of his skin. He cooled the water with a twist of the knob and remained a statue. His rib hurt when he turned, he maneuvered the soap across his body with mannequin-like perfection. He couldn’t bend two fingers. Daniel put the wooded handle of the back washer between his teeth, grabbed one of the fingers and pulled until it popped into place. His brain swam in Tabasco for a moment until the finger settled into its slot. He did the same for the other finger-suddenly the floor of the tub rose toward him. He caught the edge of the tub with the last of his strength. Eyes closed, cheek on the porcelain, he was aware of the water dancing on his back. Daniel lay there, breathing the mildew on the grout until the spots in his head subsided. He only needed a few minutes.
Walking back to his room, Daniel froze outside his parents’ slightly ajar bedroom door. He cocked his head just enough to peek in and confirm that Clyde was still passed out on the bed. The brute was on his back, head slightly off the bed and skewed downward, exposing his throat like he hadn’t an enemy in the world. This was the hour, Daniel thought… if he ever wanted to do Clyde in, a razor across the throat in the early morning would be perfect. Like a vampire in its morning coffin, nothing would stir this monster before the act was accomplished. Clyde would sleep through his own bloodletting. But Daniel believed Clyde’s end would come sooner than later-that aside from the possibility of getting hit on the road while drunk or being knifed in prison some day, Clyde’s cause of death could likely be massive liver failure. So, Daniel moved on.
He dressed his wounds with some gauze wrap and an Ace bandage and went down to the kitchen. Penny sat at the table while Rita rinsed breakfast dishes in the sink. Rita kept a cigarette dry between her right index and middle fingers as she washed and maneuvered the sponge between her thumb and the last two digits of her hand.
“There’s no eggs left,” Rita said, without turning to see who it was.
Daniel poured himself a bowl of Cheerios and opened the fridge.
“We’re out of milk,” Rita added, with an edge.
Daniel realized he’d forgotten to buy groceries last night. He pulled the Brita from the top shelf and ate his Cheerios with water.
As Rita turned, she avoided eye contact. Daniel stared at her, daring her with his mind to notice the bruises. It was a game he played where he pretended to have telepathic powers and used them to help Rita notice the obvious.
“The principal called about some desks yesterday,” Rita said.
“Yeah. Clyde already discussed it with me.”
Rita turned and looked at him with that strange interest in trivial things one has when stirred by emotions for which one cannot find expression.
“Five hundred dollars is a lot of money,” she said. “You know your father’s out of work.”
“Can’t find a job, huh?” Daniel stressed.
Rita directed an agitated nod to the staircase and relaxed only when she confirmed it was vacant.