Page 37 of Against All Odds

“Focus,” I snapped, trying to command my brain to feel fucking patient, relaxed, peaceful.

Again.

Four in. Six out.

This time, when the world glitched, I didn’t fight it. Instead, I focused on Raya as her subconscious shaped around me.

One thing the book couldn’t prepare me for was the surreality of being seen by her. During my short time as her guardian angel, I’d grown used to watching her from a distance. Being there without her knowing, observing like a ghost on the sidelines. But that look on her face, the way her eyes widened when I first stood in front of her in that classroom, when my presence somehow disrupted the absurd situation I’d found her in?

It kept replaying in my head. I craved more of it. I wasn’t sure why – maybe because it was nice to have my presence finally acknowledged after all this time, or because getting through to her was a lot easier when she could see me.

And clearly, whatever I did was working. Because Raya had paid back her roommate, hadn’t touched alcohol, drugs or even Ritalin all week, and when she wasn’t studying for her exams, she was…

Drawing me.

Nearly every time I’d traveled to her world this week, I caught her drawing. In the university library or at home, with pencil and paper or on her tablet, my own eyes stared back at me. The girl had a talent; even I could tell. She paid remarkable attention to detail, and her memory must be outstanding if she could draw me so well from that brief encounter in her subconscious. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but whatever was going on, at least she was staying out of trouble. For that alone, I would visit her again.

Raya’s dream unfolded around me. Her vivid imagination struck me once more.

We were in a library – an ominous, dark one. Obsidian tiles paneled the walls, gleaming like wet stone, their surfaces catching the faintest shimmer of light. Silver spiderwebs stretched across the vaulted ceiling, turning each strand into delicate filigree. Sunlight filtered through tall, gothic windows in narrow slants, casting fractured halos across the floor, and the books that lined the shelves followed the same moody palette of bordeaux, ebony and faded gray. In that very moment, I realized this was it – this was how I would decorate my home.

And yet, it felt nothing like Raya. Her own room was a cluttered, unkempt mess of books, clothes, crystals, college supplies, and God knows what else. Interesting that her dream world looked so different.

Then I saw the paintings, and my breath caught.

My own face was everywhere. On the walls, on pieces of paper scattered across the floor, on canvases leaning against the shelves. More often than not, she had dressed me in sparse white robes that looked nothing like anything I would ever wear. Some of them with wings, one with a glowing halo. Discomfort crawled under my skin, and yet I couldn’t tear my eyes away. This was so absurd, I didn’t even know what to think of it.

Raya stood between two large shelves, her back turned to me, painting on a life-sized easel. Inching closer, I caught sight of what she was working on: another portrait, but this one was different. Contrary to everything else in that library, she was painting me in dark shades only, black with indigo and dark gray accents, similarly to the clothes I’d worn last time.

My hand flew to my mouth when I spotted the wings she was working on. Black feathers, large enough to wrap around another person. An identical copy to the wings I’d covered her in when she cried her heart out in her room, but that was impossible. She couldn’t see me back then, so how did she know what my wings looked like?

She didn’t hear me over the soft minor chords and the slow rhythms that filled the room. With crossed arms, I leaned against one of the shelves, taking a moment to study her.

Raya looked peaceful when she was focusing on her art. She was always alert around people – flinching at loud noises, gazes that lingered too long, or God forbid someone addressed her unexpectedly. Now, a blanket of serenity hung over her. There was a tragic beauty to her, with her unkempt curls hanging over her one exposed shoulder where her oversized sweater had slid off. The sunlight that peeked in through the window kissed her skin, little specks of dust dancing in the beams that had traveled thousands of light years just to caress her skin. Small drops of gray, black and indigo decorated her clothes and skin as if they belonged to her image rather than disrupted it.

She was so focused that she still didn’t see me when I stepped around her. Her pupils were dilated, lips slightly parted. She looked vulnerable without her usual attitude – doe eyes, short build, her oversized clothes revealing glimpses of the soft curves underneath. To predators, her innocence would make her a target, and in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to personally tear off the head of every man who ever looked at her like she was prey, consequences be damned. The feeling was so strong, it tightened my throat, nearly cutting off my breath.

My fists clenched, and I tore my eyes off her, commanding myself to snap out of whatever that was and remember why I came here in the first place.

I cleared my throat. Raya spun around, and her eyes widened at the sight of me.

“Seren?” Raya swallowed thickly; her gaze raked over my body in undisguised appreciation. One thing I liked about this astral projection thing was that unlike in the liminal realm, I could choose my outfit. Last time, she clearly liked the tight leather, so today, I complemented the ripped black pants with a figure-hugging black top that was even more low-cut than the last one.

To get through to her, of course. Not because I liked being desired by her.

My jaw clenched. Suddenly, I’d forgotten how I intended to start this conversation. It’s not every day you find yourself in a gothic declaration of obsession.

I glanced around the room, my eyes darting over the somewhat obscene portraits once more. “I didn’t realize I was occupying such a large portion of your mind.”

Raya’s cheeks flushed to a deep shade of crimson. “I—I didn’t mean for you to see this,” she stuttered. “This—this was not on purpose. I didn’t realize I was dreaming, that you could—you could…” She swallowed hard, lowering her eyes, “…walk in… on this.”

I nodded slowly, not taking my eyes off her flushed face. I wondered whether I should be flattered or disturbed. If she hadn’t done this on purpose, this must be how her subconscious felt about me. Wasn’t that worse?

Instead of voicing this, my eyes rested on one particular large painting – the one with the ridiculous halo, a serene smile around my lips though my eyes were focused. A shiver crept down my spine at the intensity of my own gaze – I wasn’t used to seeing it like that. She had done a ridiculously accurate job of capturing my eyes – I could tell she’d put effort into them. “Is this, ehm, how you see me? As a literal angel?”

“No.” She spoke the word so firmly, I flinched. She finally glanced back up at me, and the look in her eyes startled me. Within seconds, awkward adoration had sharpened into something else. “This is how I used to see you… before I found your mugshot.”

Her words hit me like a stone in the stomach; the feathers that had lifted me dropped me down on the floor. “You found my—what?”