SAM AND I ARE STILL WAITING FOR COSTA TO SURFACE. We’ve been huddled under a blanket by the fireplace, drifting in and out of fitful sleeps throughout the night and into the late afternoon the following day. The sky matches our mood, and I frown at the steel clouds looming over us.
“He’s been under a long time,” I say.
“Yeah. He’s good at controlling that. He can trip and stay down for hours if he wants. And that’s what he wants right now. He’s always been good with control,” Sam says. “He’s going to surface and trip again.”
“We have to stop him.”
“I don’t know how. He’ll be impossible to catch, and I can’t think of anything to say that will get him to stop. Who would blame him for what he’s doing? Cycling death trips is his only escape right now. If we’re lucky, one of these times, he’ll surface too drained to go again, and we can get him. But that could be weeks from now. He’s being fueled by a lot right now, and that could power him through.”
“What are we supposed to do if we catch him? Tie him down? Make this hurt less?”
Sam sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe he won’t come back. He can surface anywhere he chooses, and he might not want to see us.”
He gets up and adds another log to the fire. Both of us are chilled to the core. He turns and looks at the table that is covered in things for Toby.
“I’ll get those,” I say quickly.
Sam doesn’t need to see these toys and clothes any more than Costa does when—or if—he gets back.
“We haven’t eaten since yesterday, and we have to take care of ourselves so that we can help Costa when he’s ready. Let’s get showered, and then I’ll start something for dinner, okay?”
“Sure. You’re right.”
Our moods remain glum, but showering off the trip at least cleans us up. We both were saturated in the smell of death and tragedy.
I play music over the built-in speakers while I put together homemade macaroni and cheese and bacon-wrapped meatloaf. Comfort food seems in order, and it’s abnormally cold this evening, so I hope a hot meal will help restore even a fraction of stability. Plus, I need something normal—and human—to do. Our conversation is either stilted or nonexistent while I cook because there is too much to say and also nothing to say. We let the music fill the space for us.
When everything is in the oven, I start to wipe down the counters and set the table. There are only two settings tonight, and we both feel the weight of the absence. The triangle that is Costa, Sam, and me is complex. There’s no denying that. But Costa is important to both of us. Even when he’s difficult or manipulative or exploitative, that dark prince has our hearts. I debate telling Sam about Costa’s kiss, but I decide that death tripping is pretty much Vegas, and what happens during a trip or surge stays there.
The three of us came here with a goal, and we failed. Perhaps we never should have tried because the letdown has been too great. I’m not sure that Costa will ever recover from what feels like his child’s second death. The pain and destruction is fresh again, and while Sam is being as stoic as possible, I know that he’s being swallowed by waves of guilt all over. He’s suffered enough for the negligence that caused Toby’s death.
Because I understand the almost overpowering attraction that death tripping has, it’s all too easy to imagine getting so swept up in it that the real world would cease to exist. It explains how Sam could have been so out of it that he’d forgotten about Toby. Sam, more responsible and solid than Costa and I put together, even fell victim to the ferocious pull of death tripping.
I make a big salad and check the oven. “Do you, um…do you know what power you have now?” I ask. It’s a stupid question, given what we’ve just gone through, but it’s a start at conversation.
Sam takes glasses down from a high cabinet and starts to shake up martinis. A little of our favorite hard liquor couldn’t hurt right now. “I don’t think I have one. You know how we didn’t surge earlier? I think that stopped me from getting a power. Neither has ever happened before, but it’s the only explanation I can come up with. I didn’t realize my powers were connected to the surges that way. So, we learned something. Great.” The ice crashes around in the tumbler as he chills the vodka.
I hand him a jar of olives from the fridge. “You going to be okay, Bishop?”
“Eventually.” He fills the glasses and adds olive juice.
I lift my glass to my mouth and then spill half of it when there’s a resounding knock at the door. I look to Sam. “Expecting anyone?”
“Nope. Who the hell could that be?” He’s cautious as he walks to the front door, and he even looks around the house and through the windows to the back patio. “Wait here.”
I watch from my spot in the kitchen as he peers through the peephole. He pulls back and then looks again. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“Costa? Why is he knocking?”
Sam shakes his head and opens the door. “No. Not Costa. But I have a guess who this is.”
He steps aside, and I’m astounded.
My sister walks through the threshold, looking more ragged and worn than ever. Amy is rail thin—gaunt really—and probably hasn’t showered in days. Her blonde curls have turned into a mass of frizz that she’s gathered in an unruly knot at the nape of her neck, and her sweatshirt and jeans hang on her body. Her eyes are unfocused, but she peers in my direction. “I don’t feel so good.”
Sam catches her just as her legs give out.
“Amy!” I rush over and help Sam get her to the couch by the fire.
