I freeze, the spoon of ice cream and flakes halfway to my mouth. The reporter’s words are muddled by the downpour and the clashing thunder, but it isn’t the Swedish name or price tag that makes my chest clench. The comic book. That book.
I dial up the volume as the news station flashes a copy of the rare Batman #1 comic book I remember being terrified to touch or hold. The yellow is bright on the screen.
“Insiders say this was published April 1940 and is considered a holy grail among collectors. Details about the transaction remain private, as does the seller of such a high-valued item, but one thing is certain: All eyes are on this rare book today, Lisa. Back to you.”
The camera cuts back to the tarmac, where black umbrellas and hordes of security surround the man I’m assuming is Dahlström. They flash a grainy image of the cover again, but I know it. I’d know it anywhere. The vivid cover, the cape stretched wide—it’s the same one Slade kept locked away.
My pulse stutters. It can’t be a coincidence. Sold. He sold his favorite comic. Something he loved that got him through adolescence with his grandfather. He gave that up?
“I didn’t buy your freedom for me, Thea.”Slade’s words ring out and race in my mind. I lean forward and dump the sweatingpint of ice cream on the coffee table, no longer finding any of it appetizing.
Sold. He sold—no, that’s not the half of it. He sacrificed what matters to him for my way out. He sacrificed for my freedom.
Tears flood the corners of my eyes before I can stop them. My hands tremble as I flick the remote down and blink hard. When the first tear escapes down my cheek, I swipe it away, furious.
The realization lands like a stone in my chest, which has been tumbling for weeks, finally hitting bottom. If he can sacrifice what means the world to him, what the heck have I been hoarding this safe life for? I’ve been clinging to the last few months, pretending normal was enough. Sitting through lectures, counseling sessions where I nod, lie, and say I’m doing better. I eat dinner with friends who barely know me and go home to a depressing prison, only to toss and turn to the ghost of his touch. Meanwhile, he’s been moving pieces in the dark.
No. I refuse to sit here anymore.Be brave, I tell myself.
My keys are cold when I snatch them from the counter. The metal bites into my palm as I shove my feet into my shoes, heart hammering. I fly out the door, straight into the bitter downpour.
The rain slaps my cheeks, soaking through my pajamas in seconds and plastering my hair to my forehead. I clench my teeth, making a run toward my car. By the time I fling open the door, I’m shivering, dripping, and can barely stick the keys into the ignition.
“Come on, come on,” I say, teeth chattering as my engine sputters to life. I grip the wheel and reverse out of the short stub of a driveway. I suck in a breath that swells with the weight sitting on my chest. It’s both unbearable and intoxicating. More tears blur the road ahead of me, but the car’s headlights carve two hazy pathways in the rain. Wipers thrash across the windshield but are ultimately useless against the relentless sheets of water. I keep driving, despite my hands trembling outof their tight grip. I flex my fists, aching to either touch him or punch him; I can’t decide.
He sold his favorite comic book, and for what? Me? No. I’m done letting him do this alone. I have to be more than the woman who gets saved. I have to be the one who makes the saving possible.
A smile threatens at the edges of my mouth. He wants to be the man who saves me, who sacrifices for me by laying down his own happiness to keep the world in balance, so I’ll be the brave one. Brave enough to step into the dark if it means holding on to him. Brave enough to be selfish for both of us. I don’t need him to be a noble hero; I just need him to be mine.
I torment myself with images of his comic book being loaded onto a plane, his decision to pluck it from his shelves to auction so that he could “buy” my freedom.
As I drive harder, dandelions pop into my mind, thought after thought of them. My mother’s words and how I’ve held on to them, using them to shape me. I envision myself blowing on one, the seeds scattering. I glance at where my tattoo is on my arm. One small sacrifice. If my being the Offering carries the seeds that tear EV apart, then I promise that sacrifice. I will be the puff of breath that sends them flying.
Every second on the wet, slick roads feels like a gamble, but I keep driving. The erratic tempo of my knee bouncing darts between trying to keep warm and finding an outlet for the adrenaline coursing through me.
As I approach the lake community, I panic. What if he’s not home? What if the guards won’t let me in?
No. I shake my head as if in a full-blown conversation with myself. I’ll sneak in if I have to. I lean forward, squinting through the blur of streetlamps until I finally land on his long stone driveway. I whip in, stopping at the gate and flinging myself out of the car.
Damn gate.
The cold rain pelts my skin through the bamboo fabric now soaked into nothing but a soppy mess. The scent of the rain clashes with the potent bushes next to the stone pillars of the gate. I allow a half second to stare at the iron gate and blow a clump of hair from my face.
I palm the bars that are slick with rain and force my body forward, shoulder grinding against them first. My ribs scrape as I twist sideways and barrel through the bars. With a final push, I break free on the other side, stumbling into a puddle before running along the edge of the driveway and up to the front door. I’m panting, my body warming as my anticipation spikes.
I’m back, and I can’t help but feel like I’m back home.
Everything in my body buzzes and thrums, but I lift a fist and pound on the door, over and over. Each one fueled by a mixture of fear, anger, and the hollow ache that drove me here.
There’s no movement on the other side, so I pound again. “Slade! Open up!” The words rip from my throat with a crack, and I realize I’m still crying. The rain intertwines with the tears down my face, the salt stinging my lips.
Lightning flares behind me, and I flinch. “Please!” I say again, my fist moving into an open palm as I slap the solid wood. Part of me wonders if I’d have better luck at the service entrance, and I’m about to leap away to check when the door opens.
“Miss Thea?” Edmond’s voice is raw and startled as he opens the door, eyes dipping to my soaked pajamas. “Miss Thea! Are you all right?” He throws open the door, and I don’t hesitate. I plow into the lake house and turn to face him.
My chest heaves and my soaked shorts drip cold rivulets down my thighs, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake.
Edmond stares at me before looking outside underneath the vacant porte cochere and then back to me as he allows the doorto shut. His eyes are wide as he stares at my waterlogged face and down to the puddle I’ve left in the front hall.
