“I was here?”
“Just days before your death. Your death had its purpose.” Her voice seems to give out on her, coming out in short defunct notes.
“My death?”
“Did it not?” she asks in such a way that I know her answer is already sure. Then she backs away.
I take a breath. Something starts to stir within my chest like it is creating a home within the walls of my torso. “What’s happening?” It is so desperately uncomfortable that my hands reach out to rub my skin but stop at the short leash attached to them. “I need it to stop.” My voice is quiet, but forceful. The discomfort grows until my upper body rocks back and forth to try and alleviate it. “Geo,” I call out.
He comes to my side, kneeling and placing his hand on my arm. “The more you can relax and accept what they’re doing, the better it will be.”
My brain won’t stop running with thoughts and, in fact, the speed grows until I wonder if this is what it feels like to be crazy. My thoughts jump from thing to thing, never allowing time to ponder, but instead gathering too many moments at one time.
“What’s happening?” I beg.
“You do understand that your life is not your own? Release control, Remy. If you understand this, you know that what will be, will be.”
Would any answer satisfy this ancient idea?
My breathing is erratic, and my body pulls against the cords holding me down. The sound of Gyre’s moaning and crying grows until turning into actual words, some that I can understand and others that I don’t. The room fades in and out, so I focus on the rusted crosses hanging from the ceiling. The fear overwhelms me as his voice takes a strange hold of my body and mind until I can’t tell one from the other.
“You don’t have to be afraid.” I think Geo says this even though it doesn’t sound like him. Yet when I look to my right, where he was, he is no longer there. “Fear does not have to be yours . . . if you never claim it.” A voice that is not mine fills the space between my ears. The old androgynous being hobbles to me, yet their lips are still.
“You are in my mind?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“But . . . how?”
“That’s not for you to understand yet. Soon.”
I look at the rail spikes hanging just above me and, for a moment, picture them falling one at a time and it makes me cringe. Splatters of liquid have been splashed across the wall near the right and a large spiderweb hangs from one spike to the next above me, intricately woven and large. It makes me despair at the thought of the spider that made such a thing, like the one that fell on my shoulder.
“Spiders serve a purpose,” they say, their mouth never moving. Shaky and bony hands come over my eyes, forcing me to close them. “You will think of your mother who died of cancer. How you were born into the Ephemeral world where . . .” Their voice begins to trail off as the questions continue. After a while my concentration fails on any one subject.
Pleasantly, the memories of my life as an Epheme begin with my mother, my students, and Ian like flashes of film rolling through my head. All the while my body is restless and irritated. This lasts for quite a while until quietly, but fervently, the dreams turn away from the pleasant moments to the debilitating, such as the attacker in San Francisco—his image appearing repeatedly. Half the time, I’m not sure whether my eyes are open or closed, or whether the frightening images are revealing themselves to us in the room, or my mind. Splashes of color or heavy shapes follow every image; meanwhile my head begins to ache and my stomach rolls.
“Stop.” It is possible that I spoke this, but there is no way to tell. It doesn’t matter, when Gyre continues to aggressively press on. Just the same as most dreams, my visions become distorted to the point of nightmarish, where any sense is lost with the complete suppression of my mind. “Stop,” this time I know I have said it, but it doesn’t sound like me.
My body convulses with sickness and my muscles tense until they cramp. Beyond the pain I try to break the pulsating thoughts and think of things that have saved me before. Gyre’s voice raises, seeming to come from different angles of the room, yet I must remind myself that they are right beside me. If only their voice would stop moving from one corner to the next, I might be able to end the nausea. The cultivation of memories aggravates every muscle, constricting my lungs until my suffocation feels eminent.
All my thoughts stop. All my memories cease. I still feel sick and my head threatens to split in two, but the pictures end. A multitude of men’s voices grumble, rising, yet something is still happening within my thoughts. They are still digging. My eyelids are the weight of bricks and my temples pound; however, it is impossible to ignore the fight.
One eye opens just a smidge, revealing that the room is still dark; several images stand above me and about the room, yet I can’t stay awake. It is Navin and Japha. They are there in the room. I can’t yell for help. My writhing stomach and clenched fists slowly release just as sleep comes heavily.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When I wake, the ceiling above me is not Gyre’s. I squeeze my dry eyes open and shut until my sight becomes clearer and I notice a silver-rimmed light over my head the size of a matchbook. A gentle hum of an engine combined with the rock and sway tells me that we are in a vehicle. Suddenly my stomach lurches as the car veers left.
I rip at the door handle even with the acceleration of the car until an arm reaches across my body and slams the door shut. Arek presses firmly on my fingers, “Willow . . . don’t!”
“I can’t breathe.” My insides are boiling, but my skin is cold and sweaty. “Help me,” I beg, ripping at my suffocating jacket. Arek is stricken by the look on my face and hurriedly sets me free from the coat. Yet it still isn’t enough. “I’m going to be sick. Pull over.”
“We can’t,” he warns me.
“Please.”
He gently presses the back of his hand to my forehead as my eyes roll with fatigue.
“Fever?” Sassi, who must be driving, asks from the front seat.
Arek nods.
“Everything’s spinning,” I moan and for a moment try to extend my hands to my face, but they are too tired. “What did they do? Japha and Navin . . . they were there.” A tear from my fever forms at the corner of my eye. “How did that happen?”
“That never happened. It was just your dreams. Don’t worry. I got you,” Arek says quietly.
Opening my eyes to peer out the window immediately proves to be a mistake—the world spins faster and I moan. Arek pulls my shoulders until half my body lies in his lap, and as he runs his fingertips along my temples his touch releases the pressure. Finally, every ache and spasm begins to calm.
“Did it work?” I whisper.
“We don’t know. Just sleep, we’re taking you home.”
Just then, Kilon gets off the phone from where he sits in the front seat. “Arek,” he says solemnly, “the Prophets have called everyone to the headquarters in Tokyo. Someone shared more pictures of Willow. It’s out.”
There is a bit of silence, even though I can feel that Arek’s body has tensed. It continues to build until suddenly Arek’s fist slams against the car door as he lets out a growl.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
