And I know I will follow him anywhere.
He answers anyway. “Always.”
He’s too strong; I’m a tiny puff of smoke going up against a wall of stone.
I’m barely whispering, barely breathing, when I say, “And then what? What happens to them?”
His stare stays latched onto mine, an empty void gripping me tight and sucking me dry. Words clear as day yet dark as night, he says, “That’s not my concern.”
I’m whipped out of the hypnotic memory like a cold bucket of water has been poured over my head. “What?”
“I unlock the door, summon them through. Take their present, their past. What happens beyond that—like I said, not my concern.”
“Take their past?” Before he can respond to that, my brows furrow, spine straightening as I sit up in the rocking chair. Grams, Mom, Dad . . . their faces surface, haunting my mind whether I want them to or not. “Wait, aren’t you at least curious? Don’t you want to know where people end up, after everything? If they’re going to be okay?”
“No.”
“How . . . How could you not care?”
“Care?” It’s so subtle, I might not have noticed the way his eyes narrowed if I weren’t paying such close attention. But I am. I don’t miss the clench of his jaw, either. “You forget who I am,” he says quietly, a dangerous hum sailing from his lips to my ears.
“Don’t ever forget who I am.”
Chapter 20
Asting ripsthrough my chest, making me wince. I open my heavy eyes, but it’s all a blur. A fuzzy hand pops into view, fingers pressing something white onto my wound. I groan, then tilt my chin down to see the gash. The thick shard of glass has already been removed, skin sealed up with raw stitches. It’s a grisly sight but better than I could have hoped for without proper hospital care.
“There, there,” a gentle voice coos. The tension in my body eases as I remember where I am. The shed. Our neighbor’s land.
“Tommy,” I murmur, my voice wrangled as I try to lift my head.
“Shh.” The hand guides me back down. I manage to turn, just enough to see the boy lying beside me. Tommy’s bare waist is wrapped in white cloth, his eyes closed, chest rising and falling in his deep sleep.
He’s okay.
We’re okay.
For now . . .
When I begin to stir, it takes me all of three seconds to remember I didn’t fall asleep alone. My eyes pop open, body stiff even as I slowly realize he’s not here. He can’t be. His warmth has completely evaporated, the naked chill from outside sweeping in through the cracked window and blowing lightly through my hair. I bolt upright in the bed. I can’t resist scanning the room, just in case I’m wrong. But of course, I’m not.
He’s gone.
Not a single shred of evidence proves he was ever here in the first place.
And yet, I feel . . . different.
When I swing my legs off the edge of the bed and stand, blood rushes to my head in a single, hard-hitting wave. I sway, pressing a hand to the mattress for stability. My heart, it doesn’t feel right. There are no solid and timed thumps. Instead it flutters, like the swift wings of a tiny hummingbird in my chest. I’m careful when I walk to the bathroom, trying to keep my body steady even as my mind sways.
Something is off.
I’m drained. Weak. I’ve never been on a boat before, but I imagine this is what seasickness feels like. Trying to balance on a ship that rocks beneath your feet.
I splash cold water on my face, my neck, then look up. My reflection tells me I look as horrible as I feel. Drained of color, skin clammy, eyes heavy-lidded, I look like a ghost.Ugh. I must be getting sick. I never get sick. Not since I was young, anyway.
A ringing sounds from the nightstand, prompting me to groan. Just the thought of walking back across the room in this condition makes me want to hurl. When the high-pitched noise doesn’t relent, I force my legs to move, one step at a time.
“Hello?”
