I didn’t need much to live, but sometimes I wondered what my life might have been if things had gone differently. Most of the time, I was fully content with my bachelor pad and my solitary life. It was usually when the old memories surfaced that I felt incomplete and lonely.
Sliding the food out of the pan and onto a plate, I tossed the pan into the sink. Walking across the room to the large window, I inspected my pride and joy: a four-foot-tall fiddle-leaf fig tree I’d been babying since I bought it three years before. The large, fiddle-shaped leaves stood out proud, rigid, and glossy. Before returning to the table, I quickly dusted the leaves, then spritzedthem with a spray bottle. After watering the pot and rotating the planter, I sat back down.
Downing the last of the whiskey, I winced at the burn of the liquid, chasing it with a bite of food. My hunger faded as I continued eating while staring at the fig. It was one of the bright spots I had in life. I’d raised it from a small sapling and hoped to one day see it grow to a massive tree. I looked forward to the day that it stood above my own six-foot-three frame.
Done with my meal and feeling a bit fuzzy from the alcohol, I got ready for bed. I brushed my teeth, then stripped down to my boxers.
Leaning on the bathroom counter, I gazed back at myself, inspecting the face that grew older each day. My blue eyes had obviously stayed the same color over the years—unlike the salt-and-pepper hair that used to be brown—but there was a haunted look to them that always made me uncomfortable.
With a low growl of irritation, I scooped up the pill bottle from the counter, twisted the lid off, and tilted out a single white pill. The doc always told me not to mix these with alcohol, but fuck him. He didn’t have the kinds of nightmares I had. A little whiskey, tequila, or vodka, and one of these bad boys? I’d be out like a light and my sleep would be blessedly dreamless. The last thing I needed was to see more death while I tried to rest.
Though, even with the meds, the last thing I heard before slipping into dreamless bliss was the sound of screaming in my head.
4
VERONICA
“You’vegotto be kidding me,” I muttered to myself as I peered through the peephole.
Sighing, I unlatched the deadbolt and swung the door open. “Wendy? What are you doing here? Do you know how late it is?”
The girl bit her lower lip, a look of worry and apprehension on her face. She’d transformed her hair again. The mohawk she’d sported earlier were no dark purple dreadlocks that hung to her knees.
“Hey. It’s me,” she said.
“Oh my god,” I muttered, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “I know that, Wendy. I can see you, and Iliterallyjust said your name. What are you doing here? Aren’t you in trouble with your uncle?”
“Can I come in?” she said, casting an anxious glance up and down the corridor.
“Come on,” I hissed, waving her in.
She nearly leapt into my room, and I closed the door behind her, though not before looking down the hallway myself. The last thing I needed after having such a good talk with Balthazar was for him to see his niece coming into my room after hours.
After relocking the door, I rounded on Wendy, who looked even more guilty than she had in the hallways.
“What theheckare you doing out and about? Did Balthazar give you reprieve or something?”
Wendy gave a pained smile and wouldn’t meet my eyes. That alone was enough of an answer for me.
“So…uh…this is about what I was saying earlier in class,” she said slowly.
“Kid, I like you, but you’ve got to get to the point,” I said, flopping down into a small chair that sat near the door.
“Do you know Candace Marrion?” she said, clasping her hands together and looking at me with the urgent hope that only younger children seemed capable of.
“Uh…is that a student I don’t know?” I said, a deep frown creasing my forehead.
“Ugh, seriously?” Wendy said, putting a hand to her head.
“The point, Wendy,” I said dryly. “Remember the point? Otherwise I’m kicking your butt back into the hallway.”
“Sorry,” she yelped. “Candace Marrion is a novelist. Ahumannovelist. She’s my favorite writer of all time. She’s written a few series I’ve already read, but her newest one is by far my favorite. She released the first two books already,Fire and FlamesandA Wave of Wings.”
“Okay?” I said, growing more confused by the second.
“They’re all about these dragon riders. They go to battle and fall in love, and there’s magic and swords, and—ugh,I love it somuch. The third and final book in the trilogy comes out tonight. It’s calledThe Rider Reborn.”
This was getting me nowhere.
