Ben stared at the ceiling and sucked in a deep breath.
Normally, it would have comforted him to know he’d woken in a safe place—somewhere warm and familiar—but he felt gutted, the thick scent of perfume suddenly unbearable.
He choked back a gag as he untangled himself from the sheets and searched for his clothes. Neither of the women stirred, which made freeing his trousers from beneath their sleep-heavy bodies difficult. Once dressed, he stumbled groggily into the half-lit hallway, keenly aware that the nightmare followed him, a parasite that attached itself to his wakefulness. The sting of its grip was wretched with the memory of images that tormented him as a boy.
His heart raced like a bird beating against a cage. The fear was still raw inside him despite the passage of time. I can still feel her, he thought miserably. Her eyes still watched him long after waking. Murky and wide, they bore into him, unblinking.
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. The nightmares always stole his peace. Ignore it. Just ignore it, and it will go away. Ben stumbled as he rubbed his eyes.
“Watch it, you drunk!” a man cried out in passing.
Ben grunted, stifling the man’s protestations when he stood to his full height. He was taller than the average man, built sturdier than most of the gentlemen of Paris, and he often used it to his advantage. Not that it would matter if he couldn’t find his footing. If the man didn’t back down, Ben would be at a disadvantage. He could hardly breathe how his heart raced, let alone throw a singular punch.
Thankfully, the gentleman reeled backward and mumbled, “Sorry.”
Ben pushed past him and rounded the corner of the hall into the salon. It was hard to see in the smoke and low candlelight. The madam kept the windows covered with thick curtains from dusk until dawn. Whether it was to protect her patrons’ identities or preserve the ambiance, or both, it made it damn difficult for him to make out anything.
“Jacques?” Ben called. “Jacques? Where are you?”
Some patrons looked up, but no one said anything.
Among them, he could still see her. Everywhere he looked, the horror of her figure followed. Tattered dress, pale face, and matted hair…a halo that lent light to the petrified terror of her yawning face. Beads of sweat slipped from Ben’s hair to the collar of his shirt, shaking as a chill gripped his body.
Am I still sleeping? Is this part of the nightmare? He pressed his hands to his eyes and breathed in deeply. Go away, go away.
After a moment, he lowered his hands from his face. From across the room, a shadow extricated itself from a corner, bringing momentary relief.
Jacques was unmistakable among the other patrons—a sickly fellow with cheekbones sharp enough to cut a diamond. He wasn’t one to partake in the same delights as Ben, so he was surprised to see a second shadow emerge. A young woman disappeared through the front door, but not before Ben recognized the exposed upper half of the baker’s daughter.
“Oh, ho! What’s this?” Ben leered at his friend, ignoring the nightmare. “Satisfying your sweet tooth?”
“Nothing different than what you do.” Jacques frowned, swiping back his mostly silver hair behind his ears. His severe expression aged him considerably, but Ben was older by two years. “Only I don’t pay.”
“You say that, and yet…” Ben crossed his arms and chuckled. “You don’t recognize the cost.”
“I know the cost.” Jacques rolled his eyes and made for the bar. “Spare me another lecture, lest I die here from the weight of your condescension.”
“It’s not such a bad place to die, my friend.” Ben took a seat beside Jacques, bristling at the feel of long fingers brushing the back of his neck. Shakily, Ben waved down the barkeep.
“You jest.” Jacques sighed. “And it is always in poor taste.”
The barkeep approached with a tired look. “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll have whatever, monsieur,” Ben said, licking his dry lips, “so long as it doesn’t come in a green bottle.”
The barkeep nodded and reached for a half-full bottle of gin. Ben had enough of “la fée verte” and her knack for mischief. The first sip of absinthe he ever drank should have been the first and last time, but he’d spent many nights wrapped in its warmth, sated and drunk. But his nightmares were all the worse for it.
“A little early for you,” Jacques said, raising a brow.
Ben pulled his arms in toward his chest as he leaned in closer to the bar. The nightmare was still there, practically breathing down the neck of his collar. “I know.”
“I recognize that look. You’ve had a nightmare, haven’t you?”
Ben watched the barkeep pour his drink. He shivered.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Ben tipped the drink back and slammed the glass down, indicating another. “It was awful.”
“Care to elaborate?” Jacques straightened.
“My sister.”
Jacques hummed. “Ah. The enigmatic sibling.”
“Yes. Soleil.” Saying her name aloud after so long felt strange, like ash on his tongue or cotton rubbing against his teeth. It conjured up her visage—a countenance they shared in equal measure, although Ben’s complexion was darker. In his memories, Soleil was finer. Her features were sharper, her cheeks rosy. The nightmare of her was quite the opposite, and it scratched endlessly at the back of his skull now, begging to be seen.
Jacques continued his inquiry. “What was it this time?”
“The same as always.” Ben drummed his fingers nervously against the grain of the bar. “She falls, she dies, and then she’s crawling toward me. Begging for my help.”
“And?” Jacques asked. He was all too familiar with the story. It was part of how they’d met: both of them high in an opium den, writhing over nightmarish hallucinations. It was the purest form of torture Ben had ever forced himself to endure.
“And then I woke up.” Ben closed his eyes, afraid to open them again. “Only, she’s still here.”
Jacques eyed him and then the waiting glass of another pour of gin. One hand shot out and took it, downing the substance with a sharp hiss. “Then this won’t get rid of her.”
“I think it’s a sign. She’s trying to tell me something.” Ben swallowed hard and forced himself—out of spite—to open his eyes.
