His warm silver-gray eyes, liquid like mercury, lit with relief. “Oh, good. Thought you might be sore at me, on account of my being late.”
“No,” I said softly. “No, I could never be mad at you, Dean.”
He laughed. “Never? Well, I guess that makes me the luckiest guy in Lovecraft.”
“I … what?” I peered out the window, through the sheer curtains. We were in Lovecraft, in Uptown, on one of the side streets of small neat houses that eventually gave way to the mansions of the wealthy residents. A street that had been thoroughly destroyed when the Lovecraft Engine blew.
This was wrong. This was all wrong. I’d expected screaming and nightmares, blood and all my worst fears laid bare before my eyes. Not this. Not happiness and everything I ever wanted.
“You sure nothing’s up?” Dean said. “You’re worrying me, princess.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I … This is going to be an odd question, all right?”
Dean squeezed my hand. “What’s on your mind, Aoife?”
“What year is this?” I said.
Concern flared on Dean’s face, but he did an admirable job of hiding it. If I hadn’t spent so many hours memorizing the planes of his cheeks, the square of his chin and the tiny lines around his eyes, I never would have seen it. “It’s 1956, Aoife. Just like yesterday, and the day before that.”
He touched me on the shoulder. “Is the cure your mother gave you not working? Is the iron affecting you again?”
I jerked, and Dean, thinking I was jerking away from him, stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No!” I cried. I hadn’t even realized I wasn’t feeling the familiar prickle of iron poisoning. I was only part Fae, so the progression was slower, but when puberty hit, the iron built faster and faster, until on our sixteenth birthdays we changelings succumbed and went insane. Conrad had. I nearly had. But now …
“No,” I said in a calmer fashion. Whatever game this was, I could adapt; I could learn the rules.
I would still win Dean’s freedom. The real Dean, not whatever construct this was.
“My mother’s cure is working just fine,” I said. “I’m sorry, Dean. It was a joke, but I’m afraid it wasn’t a very good one.”
He didn’t believe me, but Dean wasn’t an alarmist like Cal. He could play along just as well as I could. “No, doll,” he said. “That was the opposite of a good one. But hey—I brought home those cupcakes you like.”
I smiled and looked at the sugar-spotted pink box tied up with twine. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll just go wash up.”
“Hey,” Dean said as I headed to a narrow ladder for what I assumed was the attic of the cottage. “I like this, Aoife. Never thought your pop would go for us living in the city, but the money he put up for this place—it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He looked so grave I almost ran back to him, comforted him. It caused a physical ache, from my head to my belly button, to stand still. “Love you, princess,” he said, and came to me and kissed my forehead.
Drawing back, I ducked my head and retreated so he wouldn’t see the tears forming in my eyes. This was worse than any torment. It felt so real.
But it’s not real, I told myself. This isn’t you, and that isn’t Dean.
I found the washroom in the snug attic, off a pocket-sized bedroom painted light blue and full to the sloped ceiling with belongings that were mine and Dean’s: my notebooks; some oversized furniture I recognized from my father’s house; my clothes and Dean’s leather jacket, draped over a bedpost.
I locked the door and leaned against it. I had to get my head on straight before I lost it completely.
First things first: it wasn’t really Dean down there. The Dean I knew was dead, and that pained me just as greatly as it had the moment I’d knelt in the snow, feeling his last breath on my cheek.
Second: this wasn’t Lovecraft. If it were, it would be in ruins and I’d be going mad from iron poisoning.
Third: I didn’t know what Nylarthotep’s endgame was. To make me realize what I’d given up? To break me because I was happy rather than terrified and alone?
Whatever it was, I had to ferret it out before this projection of Dean got suspicious and things turned ugly. I didn’t know how far Nylarthotep would go to keep me here.
I could do that, couldn’t I? Remember what it was like to have my old life? I could be normal for a few hours, long enough to satisfy the curiosity of the Yellow King.
A knock sounded at the door, nearly scaring me out of my skin. “Princess?” Dean called. “Your cupcake is gonna get stale. Come on out of there.”
The doorknob rattled. I waited, gripping the basin edge with all my might. This was it. This was when the illusion shattered and the nightmares began.
Dean rattled the doorknob once more and then I heard his boots pacing around the bedroom. “You sure you’re all right, Aoife?”
I forced my fingers to unlock from the copper basin and grip the doorknob. I threw the door open with some force and Dean jumped back. “Whoa. You’re edgy today. Maybe sugar isn’t what you need.”
He’d gotten Dean almost right, I thought. Almost but not quite. The real Dean wasn’t so close in, so patronizing. Not so much like all the boys I’d known in Lovecraft. He loved me and understood me. That had been what drew me to him.
“I think I know better than you what I need,” I snapped. That was one of the rules of survival I’d learned after the apartment with the hallway: if you stayed angry, they couldn’t touch you. It could be quiet anger, expressed in silent screams rather than defiance, but you had to keep the flame burning. Otherwise, you succumbed.
Dean held up his hands. “I don’t know what’s with you today. I’m going out for a smoke.”
After he’d left I sat on the bed, but I got restless. I explored the house a bit. I didn’t appear to be trapped—I could open windows, and I could smell the salted air of Lovecraft as it blew in from the sea. I even took a bite of the damnable cupcake covered in candied violets but found it cloyingly sweet.
I heard the back door open downstairs—Dean coming in, shaking off the chill—and knew I had to go now or never. The ground wasn’t far, and there was a trellis full of dead roses next to the window.
I swung my leg over the sill. I felt thorns grasp at my pants and then at my skin, and the cool damp of blood against the winter air.
I dropped the last ten feet, feeling the impact all the way up to my molars, but I didn’t let it stop me. I wasn’t as familiar with Uptown as I was with Old Town, the district that held most of Lovecraft’s madhouses, where I’d visited my mother, but I could find my way. If this dream mirror of the city matched the real one, I’d be gone in no time, out of the main city gates and on my way back to Arkham. Those memories were murkier, and I figured Nylarthotep would have a harder time keeping me trapped there.
My hope lasted until I turned down one blind alley, doubled back and promptly found another. I didn’t think it was any sinister design, either—the tiny streets, lined with stone cottages so close they could have touched had they elbows, were simply a warren only residents could navigate.
I’d had no reason to come here before. This was a place for content people, for families, for couples living normal, predictable lives. That was never going to be me. Before I could try to find my way to one of the main roads, I heard footsteps and shouting. “Aoife!”
Dean was chasing me, shirttail flying, boots half unlaced. “Aoife!” he shouted again, catching me by the back of my shirt. “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
I wanted to fight, to lash out, but I forced myself to stay calm. “I’m sorry,” I blurted, the only thing I could think of to say. “I just—”