Checking In - A House of Glass Novel

  

Checking In

A House of Glass Novel

Rowan Drury carefully restrung the violin laid lovingly in his lap, running his hands over the sleek, shiny wood marred only by the long scratch along the side of the instrument from when he’d tripped over one of his cousin Jack’s skateboards. The violin had been forever marked and he’d spent six weeks with his arm in a sling.

Rowan had been sad about the Drury heirloom that had dated back to who-knows-when and about all the worry he’d caused his mother and the rest of his family but, in truth, the whole situation could have been worse.

He stood, clutching the violin by the neck, and stared out the conservatory window at his brothers, sister, cousins, and other assortments of relatives who dwelled in the Drury castle. They were all dressed up, grouped together on the twisted driveway that led down the hill from the castle to town. They were going out tonight. Good night for it.

It was the Midsummer’s Eve and there’d been rituals all day—feasts and gatherings, prayers and parties—all to celebrate the year’s longest day. Rowan loved the Midsummer because he got to spend the whole day with his family outside of the castle. Still on castle grounds, true, but the gardens were beautiful this time of year—all blooming Irish roses and towering ivy. And, in this one day, he would spend more time out under the beautiful Irish sun than all the other days combined. And despite the layers of sunscreen his mother would smother his too fair skin with, Rowan would soak it all in, knowing this rare treat would have to hold him for a very long time.

He lifted the newly strung violin to his chin as he watched the others pile into cars, ready to make their way into the city and make the most out of the year’s shortest night. He nodded as his sister, Willow, and his cousin, Jack, turned to wave at him. Rowan smiled at his mother who—still as pretty as any of his cousins—blew him a kiss as she held his father’s hand. Rowan raised the bow and played a fast and rowdy tune in their honor, closing his eyes as he remembered planning the night with his cousins during supper. They’d have fun in Waterford City. There would be dancing, drinks, and music. With his eyes closed, Rowan could almost imagine it.

There’d been a time—when he was much younger—when he’d longed to go with them. But he was older now. And he understood that he was Widdershins.

He sighed and laid the violin back in its case. Feeling restless, he walked about the stands and cases and shelves of instruments lining the room. Finally, he slipped onto the bench and ran his fingers over the baby grand piano’s keys. The tinkling notes eased the tension inside him.

As his family’s newest Widdershins, Rowan really didn’t get out much. He didn’t go out at all. It wasn’t allowed.

And for good reason.

The people of Redeshire called his family cursed. And they were, Rowan supposed. In a way.

While most of their Drury ancestry—that had inspired many of the myths and misconceptions of Druids, wizards, and witches—had died out a long time ago with the rise of science and the convenience of modern technology—for God’s sake, his father was an investment banker and his mother a software engineer—there were legends and legacies that still lingered.

There was a story his grandfather used to tell him. One of a Drury elder who—for the good of his people—had stopped the hand of fate. This powerful man—a witch, he’d be called today—had cast a protection spell that would pass down through blood. It was the Drury blood that bound the curse and repelled all evil. All those that carried the family name carried with it magic in their veins and a life filled with luck. And, even now, centuries after the spell was cast, the Drury family possessed wealth, success, great love—everything most people wished for and few ever got.

It wasn’t that they got everything they wanted or never had to work for what they had. Just that the little uncontrollables in life, like being at the right place at the right time with the right people, just seemed to happen more frequently to the Drurys. It was as if the invisible hands of destiny were a bit more clear to them. A Drury learned to listen to the way the wind whistled or to track the sun’s progression. A dove in the sky boded well for one’s current plans. Strong sea air brought with it change. One simply learned to be patient and wait at a crossroads for fate to eventually tip its hand.

For the Drury family, there were always signs.

But with every spell comes a price and every Drury knows the balance that rules the world must always be maintained. So, to safeguard the whole family, the elder had sacrificed himself and become the first of the family Widdershins, vowing that another would be born into every generation. That person’s fate—their duty—was to keep the balance. If every other Drury member knew only good luck, then the Widdershins knew only the reverse.

Rowan was the family’s latest Widdershins, his destiny sealed from his first breath. And though he couldn’t say that every breath since had been an easy one, he’d long since made peace with his lot in life.

And so, as the year’s longest day came to a close, he played a song he’d only heard in the farthest parts of his mind, not quite sad but in some way longing. He marveled at the way the music flowed from heart to fingertips to key to air. It was a type of magic. And it was his.

But just as he moved into the coda, Rowan jumped at a loud crash coming from somewhere down the hall. His knee smacked smartly against the baby grand, causing the keys’ heavy cover to slam down hard onto his fingers. Hissing between clenched teeth, he shook his hand vigorously before sticking it in his mouth to suck the throbbing digits.

Rowan looked toward the direction of the noise he’d heard. Everyone should be out of the castle by now, leaving Rowan and his grandfather—the eldest Widdershins—alone.

Poking his head out the door, Rowan peeked into the empty hallway. Knowing Grandda, Rowan figured the old man had probably just knocked something over or tripped on something. He was probably all right, but Rowan couldn’t get it out of his head that something was wrong.

His grandfather, though proud to serve his family as a Widdershins, wasn’t known to suffer quietly. Rowan’s knowledge of Gaelic curses came entirely from his grandfather’s mouth.

But the large stone hallway that usually echoed the slightest sound was silent. “Grandda?” Rowan murmured, the sound reverberating through the now twilight-tinged house. “Grandda?”

He heard scrambling—the slightest squeak of shoes across the waxed tiles. Stepping from the smooth wood and soft cream-colored room and into the lofty gray stone and glass halls, Rowan headed toward the noise and hoped his grandfather wasn’t terribly hurt.

Pausing by the windowed wall that overlooked the castle gardens, he noticed a large crow perched hungrily on one of the eastside windowsills. Its black feathers gleamed a strange green in the sun as the bird pecked viciously at the glass, its beak half-opened in mid-caw as its talons clenched and released in anticipation.

Carrion in an in-between. A bad omen.

Rowan held his breath as he headed east. He turned into the courtyard foyer, opening the door cautiously. “Grandda?”

At first, there seemed to be nothing wrong. Just a feeling that something bad hovered on the edges. Though the room was exactly as it should, an ordered mess of Aunt Gilly’s gardening supplies, Truman’s summer reading, and various bottles of Bella’s tanning oils and screens, the orange hue the setting sun cast made the familiar room seem foreign. He turned toward the tapping on the window and the crow that still beat its beak furiously against the glass.

Every Drury knew a bad omen at an entrance or exit—a suspicious sign within the spaces between one place and another—meant danger close at hand. The in-betweens were places, where if one wanted to know what the future held, warnings waited.

Forcing his eyes from the crow, Rowan tried to convince himself that sometimes a bird was just a bird. But as his gaze swept the room, he took in the overturned pottery and the cracked bottles. He could smell the slight metallic scent of blood mingled with the spilled fragrances mixing together on the floor.

Rowan shivered at the small signs of struggle and knew omens never lied. He turned to face the bird’s hungry, beady eyes as its head tossed back and forth in frustration. He could hear the crow cawing raucously as its wings flapped, desperate for balance, and its talons viciously scratched at the window pane. He turned away.

And there on the scuffed, slightly dirty hardwood floor, Rowan saw his hands first. Burned, scratched, and oddly disjointed—the hands of a Widdershins. His grandfather had always loved to cook despite the obvious and many dangers a kitchen held for his kind, causing scars—from knife-cuts, grease splatter, and burns of every kind—that patterned those recognizable hands.

As Rowan peered forward in the messy foyer, his boots clicking against the now marked varnish, he followed the broken lines of his grandfather’s battered hands to his stretched-out body lying in a cluttered corner among several large, now cracked potted plants. He gasped.

Kneeling at his unconscious grandfather’s side, Rowan cut his hands and knees as he pushed aside some of the mess. “Are you all right?”

This was why Rowan avoided this part of the castle, too many things to trip and fall on. His grandfather ought to have known better. Rowan could see a bit of blood on the shards of terra cotta that littered the floor. He hoped the elderly man hadn’t cut himself too deeply. Groaning with effort, he turned his grandfather’s prone body over.

With a choked cry, Rowan jumped back, bumping into heavily laden shelves, causing more pottery to fall and shatter at his feet. Rowan cringed and curled in on himself.

A crow at the window meant one thing. Death at a doorway.

The crow’s caws grew wild as his grandfather’s body fell face-up on the floor. Rowan squeezed his eyes shut but he couldn’t wipe the image of the dead man from his mind. The body was untouched, just pale and so cold. From the right angle, Rowan could have almost believed that his grandfather was simply passed out. But his grandfather’s face, that in so many ways looked much like his own only many years on, oozed blood, dark and thick as it streaked down his tattered cheeks and around his opened, silently screaming lips. He could still see where the trail of blood met and mingled both into and out of the long, deep slash across the old man’s throat.

But the worst of it—the part that had Rowan panting and pleading to his God—were the empty sockets where his grandfather’s eyes gaped open, bloody and hacked.

Oh, Merciful Mother of God. Who did that kind of thing?

But Rowan knew exactly the type of person who would cut out his grandfather’s eyes.

Most myths, legends, and old sayings had origins in truth. And eyes were in-betweens too. Windows to the soul, as they say. And with no doorway, no exit or entrance, his grandfather’s soul—a Widdershins’s soul—was trapped inside his impossibly still body, unable to pass into the next generation.

Jesus, son of God. Crawling shakily to his knees, Rowan crossed himself quickly and bent his head. He wished he could close the old man’s lidless eyes. Rowan prayed as he draped a towel over his grandfather’s form. May God bless on your journey, Grandda.

Rowan sank down and fought back fear and sadness. He couldn’t afford to mourn long. He had to think.

This was an assault not just on Paddy Drury, but on the entirety of the Drury family. With one Widdershins dead, the balance of luck was tipping. Rowan wondered if his family could feel the change already. He hoped that they were all right, even as he feared the dangers that now seeped into their once impenetrable lives. One Widdershins dead, murdered and mutilated—his soul stuck. Who knew what damage could be done now?

Rowan gasped as a thought dawned on him, for a second drowning out the worry for his family.

One Widdershins dead. One left.

Rowan backed away from his grandfather. Rowan was now the only Widdershins left. Left alone. Left defenseless. With shaky panic, he called the first number on his mobile phone. His nervous fingers fumbled on the keys, but no matter what number he dialed, there was no answer. Rowan looked down at his phone, appalled to realize that his phone’s battery was too low to place a call. Shit. Damn. “Fuck!”

He clapped his hand over his traitorous mouth as he caught that same slick slide of rubber coming from somewhere in the hallway.

The mobile slid to the floor.

Someone was still in the castle and was now headed his way.

Rowan took one last look at his grandfather—hating to leave him—before easing the garden screen door open and stepping soundlessly outside. He could see the woods that bordered the Drury property. He’d never been in them—too dangerous—but his siblings and cousins had said that the hill the castle grounds sat on was flanked by a town and a motorway.

That meant people, right?

Lots of people. Most of whom weren’t ritual killers. Right?

Rowan paused at the large hedges that bordered the gardens about six meters from the forest and wondered what he should do. The shadowed trees looked harsh and unforgiving as their branches twisted in on each other, strangling the light that tried to break through the thick canopy. He began to hyperventilate as he took a tentative step back into the familiarity of the castle. But as he heard the door to the foyer creak open, Rowan took a deep breath and ran.

He turned as a loud flapping flutter of feathers swooped down, its talons and beak aimed for his head. He screamed as he waved his arms above his head, trying to beat the crow away, but it just kept coming. Ignoring the pain as the bird scratched and clawed at his skin, he headed into the trees.

Rowan rushed past low branches and jumped over fallen limbs and when finally the crow’s ravenous caws sounded distant and muted, he slowed, panting and wheezing. He looked around, confused and lost. He had no idea where he was or whether he was even closer to the castle or the road. His body ached, his arms torn and his legs tired, but he had to keep going. He looked around and sighed before limping ahead in a random direction, hoping it led him somewhere safe.

Rowan spun as he heard the leaves rustle behind him before jerking around again at the sound of a snapping branch. He tried to slow his breathing and listen. He could have sworn he heard whispers, but the wind was whipping them in every direction, making him feel cornered.

Trapped.

He started to back away uneasily before tripping on the rocky ground. Grunting loudly, he landed hard on his side. He scrambled to his feet as he heard the leaves shift. Choking on panicked sobs, Rowan ran.

He could hear the rustling and footfalls catching up to him. He peeked over his shoulder and tried to figure out where they were, but he couldn’t tell in all the darkness. All he knew was that they were close and getting closer.

Pumping his legs, he checked his back again. He yelped as his foot slipped on mulching leaves, his knees buckling beneath him as he tumbled down the rocky hill. He held out his hands, trying to catch himself before he crashed to the ground. But he couldn’t stop himself from falling.

The last sight he remembered was that of the hungry, black bird perched on a branch above him before his head smashed against rock and pain and blackness brought him down...

To read the rest, check out my Patreon Exclusive fantasy novel “Checking In.” 

The Elysium Hotel is not exactly your average B&B.

Rowan Drury, cursed from birth and chased from his home by killers, awoke at this supernatural haven for the lost and lonely.

But something dark is growing under the seemingly serene surface.

The Elysium may look like an Eden safe from the troubles plaguing the boarders’ pasts, but even protection comes at a price.

And staying at this parasitic paradise costs nothing less than your soul.

Rowan, with cursed powers he doesn’t yet understand, can see the trap hidden beneath the hotel’s flourishing beauty, but can he and the other guests escape before it’s too late? Will they even want to?

Or, for those already damned, is a taste of heaven worth the loss of whatever’s left of your soul?

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For Your Eyes Only – A Checking In Short Story

* When I’d first written Checking In, I’d deliberately avoided writing this scene because it’s, as the title of this story suggests, a private moment between Lenten and Mei and it felt authorially rude to invade at such a time. But, when I let friends read the book, they’d so wanted to be privy to this moment. So, for a Valentine’s Day writing exercise, I wrote this little bonus scene as a bit of a compromise. This is what happens after Lenten walks into Mei’s room at the end of Checking In.

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

The door shut behind Lenten and Mei with a definitive clink, the room’s lock clicking into place. It was as if the Elysium itself knew that this moment was theirs alone.

Lenten felt his chest clench as Mei reached up a hand to touch his face. Her fingers tenderly brushed against his cheek, his lips, his nose—all the features that had already paled and vanished from her face—the comparison crushing his heart.

He grabbed her wandering hand and kissed the heart of her palm before pressing it against his chest. Over his heart.

He had had her in his life for so long now, he didn’t know how not to. Didn’t want to know.

He bent his head low, ashamed. “I should have done better by you,” he whispered into the too quiet night. He’d been scared and selfish, had squandered their time together, so sure there would always be more time. That he could find the words and courage and strength later. That here in the Elysium—here with her—what they had could last forever. He should have kissed her. Should have held her. Should have adored her—every inch and ounce—the way he wanted to. The way she deserved.

He should have been better.

He heard her feet shuffle before she stepped hesitantly closer to him. Tentatively—for the first time—she lay both hands on his chest, nestling her head beneath his. She pressed herself against him in a wordless request.

God, she deserved better than him. And, in the little time left to them, he wanted to be better. For her.

Braving a boldness he didn’t think himself capable of, he wrapped an arm around her as his other hand reached for the ties in her hair. Unbinding it, he let the long, midnight length free. It flowed almost unbearably soft down over her back and onto his fingers. He let the silken strands sift through his grasp, reveling in the sensation, before tipping her head back to look down at her.

So much of Mei was already gone. Had faded away into the smooth expanse that had stolen her face. That, before morning, would steal her soul. Featureless, her eyes were all that were left of her.

He’d always thought they were one of her most beautiful features. Deep and rich and true, her eyes were what he always imagined looking out into space would be like. Overwhelming. Too stunning for words. And the closest peek of heaven any mortal man could see.

Looking into them now, Lenten imagined he could read their past in Mei’s dark eyes. See every memory as it flickered through her mind. He leaned in close to kiss the corner of her eye, tasting the loss of their future in her tears.

Theirs should have been a union that lasted forever. But, if tonight was all they had, he would do whatever he could to fit forever into whatever time Mei had left. He wouldn’t let her leave this world feeling anything less than cherished.

He held her fiercely and breathed in the scent of heather that clung to her, feeling her arms wrap around him just as tightly.

Dredging up the courage to say the three words he'd never told her but should have said, Lenten swallowed hard. He felt the slow, faint beat of her heart against the pound his own. He took a deep breath and leaned down to lay his forehead against hers. “I love you, Mei.”

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Checking Out - Part Three (The End)

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Chapter Eight: Checking Out - Part Three

Rowan

Rowan blinked and looked around at the beautiful sun and the garden full of flowers. Red roses, delicate foxgloves, and perky daisies. Yellow flags nestled next to bluebells. Ivy towered and twined up high stone walls and twisted around elaborately carved wooden gates. Rowan inhaled. He was home.

“Rowan?” his father’s voice said from behind him.

He turned toward the familiar timbre of his voice, but without the excited expectation he’d felt before. He didn’t need to jump this time. It was just another dream. He knew that. Even so, his heart gave a small lurch when he saw his father smiling at him, pride and love shining in his eyes.

“You did it.” Fraser Drury sat next to his son on the warm stone bench in the middle of the castle’s garden. “We are so proud of you.”

“I was thinking of you when I did it,” Rowan said with a smile. But the expression didn’t last. This was a dream, he knew. But dreams were in-betweens too and there were things he had to know. “How are you? All of you? Are you all right?”

“I won’t lie to you, son,” his father said, his smile turning sad.

Rowan frowned. His father only said that when the answer was too horrible to speak of, when the news was better left unsaid. Rowan sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” His father’s voice started to grow fainter as a blustering wind began to whip. “Never be sorry;” he insisted,” be safe.”

Rowan watched with tears in his eyes as his father’s figure paled, the color and vibrancy leeching out of him until only a ghost remained. Be safe, my boy, until you find your way back.

With his throat too choked to speak, Rowan just nodded. He fisted his hands at his side, fighting the urge—the desperate need—to reach out and try to hold on to the wintry wisps of his father.

But that would be useless.

And too heartbreaking. Trying to touch a ghost of a shadow. A nightmare within a dream.

So he just sat and watched his father fade.

Come back to us, Rowan. Come back.

He woke with a start, blinking up at the high, lofty ceilings of his Elysium suite. He pushed the blankets off and sat up. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, determination and resolve banishing the drowsy remains of the dream as the barest bit of sunlight pierced the still purple night.

He would make it home.

He’d do whatever he had to, but he would get back to his father and his mother and all his family.

He couldn’t allow himself to stay here. To get trapped here. Like Mei. There’d be no more distractions. No other plans. No other missions.

He would never regret helping Mei, but it was all clear now. From now on, his only goal was to get back home.

I’ll need help, he decided as he quickly changed clothes. If he wanted to leave, he needed to learn more about the hotel and how it worked before he could even attempt to figure out a spell or potion or some such magical solution.

He needed to talk to Calla. For weeks now, ever since she started trailing Mei, she’d filled notebooks with her scribblings, little facts and theories about the inner workings of the Elysium—how it tracked time and how it moved through space. He needed those notes.

Running up the stairs to the second floor with nothing but Calla’s small, slanted print filling his head, Rowan tripped on the last step as a door creaked open in the silent, still dusk. He held his breath—the memories of the twilight-tinged castle still vivid in his head—as a man crept out into the hallway. Rowan waited until the shadows gave way to the morning, letting light quickly flit over the man’s features. “Lenten?” he asked incredulously, blinking madly at the man.

The man stiffened and stayed a moment before he turned to face the boy. “Rowan.” He tried to straighten his crooked and hopelessly wrinkled suit. Rowan took in the tired, weary look on the manager’s somber face before he glanced up at the door he’d just left.

Suite 206.

Mei.

“Oh.” Rowan peeked through the slim opening into the empty room.

Not empty.

In the back of the room, he could sense, more than see, the figure quietly tidying the room.

“Oh.” Rowan couldn’t tear his eyes from the door even as Lenten stiffly, firmly, shut it behind him.

The manager nodded and swallowed, avoiding the boy’s gaze. “Suite 206 is closed for cleaning,” the man said matter-of-factly, “as Mei is no longer a guest at the Elysium.”

The manager moved past, heading up the stairs—to his own room, Rowan supposed.

Without thinking, the boy reached out an arm to stop the man. For a moment, they both stood with tense breath. Rowan looked up at the man with sorrow and sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Lenten.”

The man let out a ragged breath and smiled ruefully at him with a shrug and a shake of his still rumpled head. “Guests aren’t really guests,” he said, his voice broken as he adjusted his glasses, “if they stay forever.”

Then Lenten patted his hand before dislodging it. He turned again to hurry up the steps, leaving Rowan in the now sunlit hallway, as he disappeared into the shadows of the stairs.

THE END OF BOOK ONE

 

 

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Checking Out - Part Two

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Chapter Eight: Checking Out - Part Two

Calla

Leo: Hold on to the things you love fiercely, but love fiercely enough to let things go.

Stupid horoscope and its fatalistic, fortune-cookie crap.

She didn’t know why she read them every day. She really should stop. It wasn’t as if she put much stock in astrology or psychictry. You couldn’t read the future in the palms of people’s hands or in the trajectory of a star. If you could, life would be so much simpler and much more boring.

No, Calla didn’t believe that horoscopes foretold the future. They were just old adages and Aesop fables’ morals attributed to star alignment or some such nonsense. Just age-old pearls of wisdom passed off as New Age prophecy.

She knew that.

It’s just that she also figured good advice was good advice and she wasn’t about to discount it just because it came from someone who thought they were psychic.

Calla’s eyes turned from the paper she was holding to the TV and the bright and shining colors of the Saturday morning cartoons playing across her screen late at night. It seemed that—in entertainment, at least—the hotel could be very obliging.

Calla watched the caped crusaders trounce the evil villains, wishing that life could be as easy and as just as that. She wished that she could put on a mask and make everything right.

Unfortunately, her alter ego was her only one and, it seemed, injustice was safe from her.

She’d failed. She promised to help Mei. To save her. But she’d failed.

Some hero she turned out to be.

Calla sighed and leaned over her bed to dig beneath the cover’s overhang and grab the goods she kept there. Well, if she’d learned anything, it’s that, when Fate lets you down, there’s always chocolate.

She popped up again at a knock on her door.

She glanced at the clock and wondered who could be knocking at her door so late at night. Reaching for the remote, she paused the DVD before getting up to answer the knock. “Olive?” Calla did a double-take when she opened the door. “What are you doing up?”

The small girl bit her lip, clutching her doll tight to her chest. “I fell asleep outside Mei’s room, I think. She wouldn’t let me stay with her.” The girl pouted. “But I wanted to be there, when she left, to…” Her face pinched as she paused.

To talk her out of it, Calla knew. To somehow convince her to stay. To stave off the inevitable and pull off the impossible. She shook her head. “You should be in bed, little miss.”

“I was,” she said. “I woke up in my room, in my bed. I don’t know how I got there and I didn’t want to stay there alone.” She looked up at Calla with sorry sadness in her eyes. “I went to Uncle Lark’s, but he wasn’t in his room.” She shifted her weight a bit, shuffling her feet. “I’d go to Mei’s, but...” The little girl’s voice trailed off, her lips wavering and her eyes beginning to tear.

Calla smiled sympathetically and nodded. “Come on.” She held out her hand to the girl, leading her into the room. Patting the mattress, she urged the girl to join her on the bed.

The girl jumped up on the bed, bouncing with the effort.

Calla knew she ought to talk to the girl, ask her if she was all right. But what was there to say? The girl wasn’t all right and Calla, despite all her efforts, couldn’t make her so.

So, following her own advice, Calla reached under her bed and pulled out an opened package of Tim Tams. The chocolate-covered biscuits didn’t solve anything but, if anything could keep it all at bay for a bit, it was cartoons and cookies.

So curling up with her on the bed, giving her a pillow and a share of the blankets to cuddle with, Calla started up the DVD again, letting the fantasy fill what fate couldn’t fix.

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Checking Out - Part One

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Chapter Eight: Checking Out - Part One

Larkspur Plant: (Delphinium) This fragile, complex plant grows colorful, star-shaped flowers grouped together in a raceme pattern atop a tall stalk. Though highly poisonous, it’s used in herbal medicine to treat asthma, dropsy, and parasites. It’s also used during the Feast of St. John to stave off lightning and, in Transylvania, to ward off witches.

Also called Knight’s Spur and often represents an open heart.

Lenten

Lenten looked at his watch again as he sat at his desk, piles of undone work in front of him.

It’d been five hours and thirty-two minutes since the Drury boy had cast his spell, or whatever it was. Lenten had been watching the proceedings in the sunlit dining room—hiding like some snooping child—from the second floor overhang.

He’d watched with bated breath as Mei’s features gently reappeared, as if an invisible artist were painting her with divine brushstrokes.

First her lips, so pink and soft as their delicate shape had swept across her face.

Then the sweet blush of her cheeks as they’d touched the silken surface of her skin.

He’d almost laughed with tickled relief when her nose twitched as she’d smelled the strong, mentholated scent of the pennyroyal tea, her eyebrows raising at the sudden sensory awareness.

Even after everything he’d seen at the hotel—perhaps because of it—Lenten had always hated magic. It was irrational, inexplicable, and uncontrollable. And it always had implications.

There was always a price to pay.

But watching Mei reappear from the nothingness she’d been all but banished to had felt like a fairytale.

But this wasn’t their happily ever after.

He knew that.

Rowan had explained everything to him that morning, before he’d given his concoction to Mei.

Nine hours.

More than he’d thought; less than he’d hoped.

Rowan had asked if Lenten would allow Mei to say goodbye to Olive. If he would allow Olive to say goodbye to Mei.

“You’re asking me?” Lenten had replied.

“You’re her uncle,” the boy had said with a shrug. “Her guardian. Family. Of course, I’d ask.” He’d averted his gaze. “You’re just trying to protect her. Trying to act in her best interest, I know that.” His voice had hitched with hesitation. “It’s just that,” he’d added, taking a step back, “sometimes even protection can hurt.”

Hours later, Lenten was still arguing with himself over the decision he’d made.

Mei had been a mother to Olive for thirty years; they both deserved the right to pay a last respect to that relationship. It would be heartless of him to deny them that and he wasn’t a heartless man. He tried very hard not to be.

He’d only had two requests when he’d agreed to the boy. The first was that—if the enchantment worked—Olive would be the first person Mei said goodbye to and Mei would only be allowed to stay until the first signs of the spell fading.

He wouldn’t have Olive seeing Mei vanish twice.

After nodding, the boy had asked, “What’s the second request?”

“I’ll be in my office all day;” he’d told the young man, “please inform everyone that I’m not to be disturbed. For any reason.”

Lenten looked at his watch again. Five hours and forty-three minutes. And not so much as one pen mark of work to show for it.

He groaned and leaned back in his chair. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his hand against his tired eyes. He needed to leave. To sleep. By the time morning came, this would all be over and his life—such as it was now—would go on again.

Lenten stood, straightening his tie and suit coat as he readied himself to leave. Shuffling his papers, he lingered a bit, trying to imagine his life without Mei but finding it impossible. With a sigh, he closed the door to his office, hearing the lock slide into place.

A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he stared at the door, the sweet scent flooding his senses even before his mind could put it all together. His hand moved slowly, unsurely, as he reached for the sprig of heather hung on his door.

He wanted to rip it off his office. He wanted to toss it away, fling it far from him.

Instead, he found himself bringing the delicate flowers to his nose, inhaling deeply as he walked aimlessly through the hotel.

It was funny how a scent could take you back. How it could dig inside your mind and dredge up every memory, every emotion. He wondered if he’d always think of her when he smelled that scent.

He was afraid that he already knew it would.

Lenten was surprised—though he supposed he shouldn’t have been—when he found himself on the second floor. He sighed, tucking the sprig inside his coat’s inner pocket, and headed for Suite 206.

He stopped just as he turned the corner, the sight of Olive curled on the carpet in front of Mei’s door stalling him.

It shouldn’t have surprised him.

He nodded and went to the young girl. She was sweet in her pink and white pajama set with her little Daisy held tight in her arms. She was all lace and starlight, like a pixie come to life. She was so small, so fragile, yet here she was standing watch. Protecting the woman she loved with a strength so much older than her years. A strength that—despite the difference in their age—he just didn’t have.

He bent down to anchor a stray strand of her soft, red hair behind her ear. He loved her so much.

She was his world.

She was his home.

Sliding his arms around her, he scooped her up into his secure embrace. He cradled her small weight against him as he carried her up to her own bed. He tucked her in, pulling the blankets up around her small form.

She cooed softly and curled into her pillow with a slight snuffle. He smiled as he bent low to kiss her forehead and lay the sprig of heather beside her on her pillow, hoping the scent could comfort her and fill her dreams with good memories.

He stood next to her, staring as the moonlight sifted through the curtains to shine on his niece’s sweet, sleeping face. She was so young.

Never mind that she’d been eight for more than thirty years; she was just too damn young.

She’d already lost her mother at birth, then her father. Now this. How could fate be so cruel? How much more could she bear before that indomitable spirit he so envied broke beneath the weight of loss?

Kissing her goodnight again, he vowed that he would never let it happen. Never. She was all he had left of his brother. The only family he had. He wasn’t sure how he’d manage, but he wouldn’t let her lose anyone or anything else. He just couldn’t bear it. He pulled the covers more tightly over her, shielding her from the night’s chill, before making his way quietly out of her room.

Instead of heading next door to his own quarters—as he should have—Lenten kept walking. He knew exactly where he was headed, even if he’d have liked to pretend otherwise. For all his intentions to rest and sleep the night away, there was never another destination.

Lenten sighed as he knocked softly on Suite 206’s door.

Forcing himself not to flee, he waited for Mei to open the door.

He was just about to leave—in spite of how cowardly it made him feel—when the door creaked open a bit and a hand peeked out to curl around the door. “Mei?”

He saw her fingers tense before sneaking back inside as the door swiftly moved to close.

“Mei.” He lay a reflexive hand to the door, keeping it open. “Mei, please,” he pled softly. “I just,” he paused, “wanted to say that I’m sorry. For running out on you.”

Still the door remained closed.

“I didn’t want to leave things this way.” He didn’t want the last thing he said to her to be that he didn’t have time for her. “Please, let me in.”

Reluctantly, the door opened a bit, so he could see her shoulder and side, but still she hid behind door.

“I am so sorry,” he said, lowering his voice. “Can we talk?” He tried to push the door open more. “Mei, please.”

There was a long pause before she pulled the door wider, stepping out from behind the door.

He inhaled sharply as she faced him. Just as quickly, she turned her face away again.

It had been six hours.

Six hours and already her features had all but faded, making them difficult to distinguish. Her face was a smooth, unvaryingly cream-colored surface, broken only by the dark depths of her eyes. They looked huge and wide set in the expanse of beige and they shone with sadness and shame as he stared.

“Oh Mei.” He reached up to cup her face. She turned away from his touch.

He had waited too long. Their time was up. His chance to talk—to explain—was gone and was never coming back.

He was such a fool.

He let his hand drop as he bowed his head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” His voice broke as he shook his head. He swallowed hard. “I should go.”

Lenten turned to leave, but stopped when he felt her hand on his arm, halting him. He turned back, surprised. He watched as her hand drifted down his arm meaningfully to clutch his hand. “Mei?”

He looked into her eyes, full of worry and expectation. He could only imagine, knowing her as he did, that she would have bit her bottom lip with such nervousness—if she could have.

He sighed with disappointment as he let his gaze wander to the place where her lips should have been.

He’d never kissed her.

That was all he could think. In thirty years, he’d never once known the feel of her lips against his. He shook his head, feeling his throat tense with regret. “God, I’ve been such a fool.”

As she tightened her grasp, he saw her gaze deepen with what he thought—what he hoped—was forgiveness.

And, possibly, love.

He didn’t deserve her—as fate knew all too well.

She stepped back into the darkness of her room, her arm straightening as she kept hold of his hand. She looked at him questioningly as she turned her head to invite him inside.

Six hours gone.

Three left.

By the time the sun came up, it would be over.

And she would be gone.

As she waited for him to enter, her grip on his hand loosened, pulling him back into the moment as she let him go. The questioning look in her eyes had turned anxious.

She was letting him off easy.

He knew her too well; she wouldn’t force him to stay no matter what she wished.

Even as she was, she was strong enough to let him be weak.

He couldn’t stand it, seeing such uncertainty and doubt in her gaze.

Grabbing her hand before she could pull away, he shook his head as if the action could banish those worries from her. “Mei,” he said softly as he touched her face, stepping closer to her and into her room.

Though her skin was still soft, pliant beneath his fingers, the shape and the texture of it was off. Though his mind knew it was Mei he was touching, his hands could tell a vital part of her was already gone.

Her eyes fluttered shut and he almost panicked. Watching the lids shield her eyes—erasing that last bit of her—was too much.

“Don’t,” he begged, sliding his thumb beneath her lashes. “Don’t. Not…Not yet.”

He breathed easier as he saw her eyes open, melting with delighted relief when he walked her back into the shadows.

Fate may have decided to take everything else from them, but—he was determined—they would have this night.

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Chapter Seven: Housekeeping - Part Four

Calla

Taurus: Strong-willed and determined, you will always succeed in whatever you attempt, even if it is not exactly as you intended.

Calla watched Rowan set the steaming mug down in front of Mei. The poor woman was all but gone, her features a distorted echo of what she’d been behind the swirl of steam wafting up in the empty, chilly dining room.

“You’re sure this is safe?” Flax asked as Mei wrapped her hands around the mug.

Rowan rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. “Well,” he said with a raised eyebrow, “considering what’s she’s already facing, I don’t think the risk is unreasonable.”

Flax huffed, his shoulders bunched disapprovingly.

Mei lay her hand on the man’s wrist, patting comfortingly. Too far gone to talk—the vague outline of her lips no longer made for speech—Mei tried to communicate wordlessly. Her eyes, deep and dark and still hopeful in spite of her sadness, were more expressive than words.

Yeah, what with the threat nipping at her heels already, Mei wasn’t too afraid of a little Earl Grey.

“I still don’t really get how this all works,” Calla said as Mei took her first tentative sip with her barely visible lips. “She drinks a little spell-spiked tea and buys a bit more time from the boatman?”

Rowan scratched the back of his head, ruffling his bright red hair into short spikes. “Well, according to the book, the ancient figure called by the spell represents the passage into life, a gateway of sorts. The pennyroyal herb, as a poison, acts as a counter doorway. The spell paired with the potion, in theory, then opens two passageways—much like the rip in suite 315—one in the world of the living and one in the world of the dead, creating a bridge between the two—a temporary space outside of both.” He gave a little laugh. “An in-between of sorts.” He shook his head and shrugged. “My hope,” he said, “is that, in that space, whatever hold the hotel has over Mei will be suspended. For a bit.” He frowned. “In theory.”

Yeah, that didn’t really help any. “So how long is it supposed to last?” she asked. “How long till the bridge comes tumbling down?”

She watched Rowan’s face pinch. “I don’t know.” Turning to Mei as she drank more deeply, her lips plumping and flushing a pale pink as the liquid passed through them, Rowan sighed. “It’s my first try at magic and I am Widdershins. So I can’t guarantee anything. The spell is supposed to grant you three times the third hour—nine hours,” he clarified. “But it may not last that long. I’ve never had the best timing in the world and, if my luck has taught me anything, expect it to wear off at the very worst moment.” His face fell as he turned away, disappointment and regret weighing him down. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do more, but—”

He looked up when a hand covered his gently. Calla watched his and Mei's hands intertwine, the small fingers offering comfort and thanks. Calla let her gaze look up from the woman's soft, graceful hand to the delicate wrist, up lithe arm, past the sweep of shoulder, to her face.

Calla gasped. “Oh, Mei,” she breathed, her voice hushed and low.

She’d almost forgotten how beautiful and kind the woman’s smile was. Or maybe it was because she’d never taken the time to really look until it was gone. The other woman’s face, while perfectly pretty in a superficial kind of way, held more than just an aesthetic appeal. It was there in the brilliancy of her eyes, in the sweet tilt of her smile.

Mei was beautiful in a way no cosmetic line or plastic surgeon could bottle or copy. It was something that shone from the inside out. It was something that nothing—not age or accident—should be able to destroy.

But the hotel…

Calla shook her head.

The hotel—or whatever was causing this—had reached inside of Mei and stolen, bit by bit, that indefinable and untouchable part. It had insidiously stolen her beauty.

But, for a brief moment, it was back now, warm and grateful as ever, as she beamed at Rowan.

“Thank you,” the woman murmured, her voice so soft and very weak, but still wrenchingly melodic.

Calla broke into a smile, shaky with tearful happiness, as she saw Rowan’s eyes well and Flax’s jaw tighten with barely contained emotion. Rowan, too choked up to talk, just nodded, placing a hand over hers, holding it between both of his.

Flax coughed as he stood, his chair screeching back on the tile. “Come on, Mei,” Flax said, his voice rough with strain. “I expect you’ll want to see Olive first.”

Mei nodded and took his offered arm before allowing the man to escort her out of the dining room.

Rowan stood, watching them go before gathering up the empty mug again.

“It worked,” Calla said, more than a little surprised. She’d hoped that it would, but she’d never really believed.

“It worked,” Rowan repeated, sounding pleased, proud, and profoundly relieved. He gave a short laugh. “I can’t believe it did. I really thought it wouldn’t. I was so worried it might make things worse.”

He shook his head and shot her a sorry peek. “I’ve never done anything like this; I hardly knew what I was doing the whole time. All the while, I kept thinking, what if my only power is being Widdershins, being a jinx and a klutz; what then?” He sighed, relieved. “I’m just glad it seems to have worked.” He shrugged, his brow furrowing. “For however long it does.”

Calla gave him a shocked, exasperated look. “Why are you down playing this?” She punched him on the shoulder. “You did good, Rowan.”

Calla grinned as she saw the boy hunch his shoulders and blush a furious red that almost matched his hair. “It wasn’t much, but I was glad to do it.” He picked up the book that he’d been carrying around with him fa or the past few days like a security blanket. “For the first time since I got here, it felt good to work toward something. To have a goal and a plan. I felt,” he said with a shrug, “close to something. Close to an answer.” He hugged the book to his chest and looked at Calla with hope and faith in his eyes. “Close to my family.”

For a moment, the grief that had weighed heavy on him from the moment she’d first seen him had lifted—just a bit. She wondered if she was seeing Rowan as he was before all this. It was nice. “Will you keep doing it?” she asked. “The magic?”

Rowan’s fingers idly stroked the book’s spine, the worn leather looking soft and loved beneath his gentle touch. With a small smile, Rowan nodded his head. “I think I will.”

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Chapter Six: Housekeeping - Part Three

Lenten

What in the name of God was Flax doing in there! The kitchen was several yards away with two walls separating them and yet, still, Lenten could clearly hear the chaos happening inside it.

He clutched his pen and ground his teeth, gritting back a growl.

Flax was doing it on purpose, Lenten knew it.

Flax was still angry at him, so the Cordon Bleu bastard was banging about in his damned kitchen, clanging pots and crashing God-knew-what on the tiled floors.

He wanted to get a rise out of Lenten.

And Lenten knew it.

Well, he wasn’t going to give that pompous know-it-all the satisfaction. He would not let that arrogant, gin-soaked snoop know how much he and his banging bothered him.

Another loud smash sounded loud through the hotel walls.

That was it!

Lenten shoved his chair back with a snarl.

Try as he might, he simply couldn’t ignore that man and his noise. His loud, interfering, judgmental noise!

Normally, Lenten was a calm man. Calm, sedate, even—some might say—cold. He never had a temper and he never used obscenities—not even in his thoughts—finding the habit uncouth and vulgar. But, struggling with his last nerve, he slammed the book he was working on with a loud and particularly colorful curse.

If Flax had something to say to him, he could damn well say it to his face instead of pounding pans together from behind a wall like a toddler.

Sharply shutting his office door behind him, Lenten made his way through the dining room before pushing his way into the kitchen. “Flax!” he all but bellowed, surprising himself with the strange, gruffly animalistic sound growling up from his throat.

This time the crash was so loud Lenten stepped back in shock as he saw something vaguely body-shaped tumble off the counter.

“Flax?”

He heard a low, pain-filled moan.

“Dear God.” He rushed around the counter to kneel on the ground. “Are you all right?”

Grabbing the groaning figure crumpled on the tile, Lenten helped turn him over. “Rowan.” He blinked blankly at the boy now holding his bruised elbow. “What are you doing in here?” Lenten looked up, surprised to find the rest of the room empty. “Were you the one making all that noise?”

Rowan winced. “Yeah,” he said apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so loud, but I can’t find anything in here. I should just ask Flax, but...” He trailed off with a self-deprecating shrug as a flush burned across his freckled cheeks. “I didn’t actually want anyone to know what I was doing,” he muttered, rubbing his shoulder.

“And what are you doing?”

“Right now?” the boy hedged. “Looking for some tea.”

“Tea?” the man asked incredulous. Why did he look so embarrassed and shifty about tea?

Rising, Lenten walked to one of the cupboards and opened it, revealing an impressive array of teas from all over the world.

Rowan didn’t look impressed despite the fact that the hotel boasted a wide array of flavors and types, from instant to gourmet, from Chamomile to Chai. “I already looked there,” the boy said. “I was hoping you might have more somewhere else.”

Lenten eyed the cupboard stocked and stuffed with shelves upon shelves of boxes, tins, cans, and bags piled atop each other. He wanted more? “Perhaps you should tell me exactly what you’re looking for and I can see if we have it in storage.”

The boy took his time pushing himself off his knees, only to shuffle his feet nervously underneath him with a muffled click on the tile, never quite meeting the man’s now very suspicious gaze.

“What are you really looking for, Rowan?” Lenten asked, his voice hardening with temper as his suspicions mounted. He studied the young man, well aware of the stupidity of youth. “We don’t keep controlled substances in the hotel, much less the kitchen, so if that’s what you’re looking for—”

“No,” the boy assured quickly. “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

He turned away evasively. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any lemongrass anywhere?"

Lenten gave the boy a pointed look. “Lemongrass?” He shook his head. “That’s what you’re looking for?”

The boy shifted his weight again. He bit his lip. “It’s one of the things.”

“What are the other things?” The man planted his fists on his hips.

“Ginger.”

“And?”

“Honey.”

“And?”

“Purified water.”

“And?” His patience—which was already thin—was just about gone. “Out with it, Rowan.”

“Pennyroyal?”

“Poison?” Lenten gaped with disgust. “What would you possibly want with that?” And did he really think that they would—that Lenten would ever allow them—to keep such things in the kitchen?

“I need it,” the boy insisted.

Lenten looked the anxious, guilty-looking boy up and down. “What do you want to use it for?”

Rowan winced and mumbled, “Mei.”

“You want to give her poison?” Lenten’s fists curled against his rising anger. “You plan to poison her!”

“No!” Rowan held out his hands innocently. “No.” He cringed and tilted his head a bit. “Well, yes. Kind of.” His shoulders slumped slightly, causing the small boy to shrink further into himself. “Only a little.”

He shook his head when the man started to object. “I don’t think the damage to her liver is really a comparable concern right now.”

“What do you want it for?” Lenten demanded. “Exactly.” If he intended to harm Mei or in any way hasten her...predicament, Lenten didn’t know what he’d do. Biting back rage, he hid his tight fists behind his back even as he fought the urge to lash out.

Rowan jumped at the man’s harsh tone before scrambling back to the counter to grab a book he’d left open there. “Don’t be angry.” Rowan held out the book to him. “Mei asked me to do it.”

Lenten looked into the boy’s apologetic green gaze before lowering his own to the yellowed pages. “I can’t read any of this.” Lenten stared at the foreign words in front of him. “What is this?” the man demanded, thinking it looked like a damned grimoire.

“In its original language, it’s literally translated as one of those books,” Rowan said in a voice that implied Lenten wasn’t far off his mark.

“A book of magic.” The practical 1950s man couldn’t keep the skepticism and distrust from his voice.

Rowan shrugged. “A book of spells and rituals, yes. At first, they were referred to as those books out of respect. One had to be studied and knowledgeable to even speak of such things. One had to be among the worthy.” He shrugged again. “Then it became dangerous to possess the knowledge of my people. We were hunted. Slaughtered. The knowledge destroyed.”

“You think you can help her with this?” Lenten’s fingers feathered over the book’s old but sturdy cover.

Even though he couldn’t be bothered with the lesson right now—not with Mei’s life on the line—Lenten felt oddly encouraged by the book’s history.

As if it somehow lent more credence to this insanity.

“This is what you need the pennyroyal for?”

The boy hesitated for a moment as if judging the decision of disclosure before coming up next to the man. He pointed to the page, the old paper crinkling beneath his fingertips. “This is a pennyroyal potion, used in certain rituals.”

“What kind would that be?” Lenten asked, not sure he wanted to know.

The boy looked uncomfortable.

“What is it, Rowan?”

“Rituals meant to simulate death.”

Lenten saw red as a harsh, angry sound slipped like a knife from his throat.

“Mei came to me yesterday,” the boy hurriedly explained. “She asked me to help her.”

“And a death ritual is supposed to do that?” Lenten raged.

“Not alone,” Rowan said. “Look.” He began flipping through pages. “I came across the pennyroyal potion before, but I didn’t think anything of it. But then Calla and I were looking at her notes about how time works in the hotel. We started thinking about her theories in relation to the rip in Suite 315.”

“What about it?” Lenten asked, impatient.

“Well, there’s a spell here,” he said, shoving the book toward him again, “the First Breath spell.”

Lenten looked at the page. There was a large-headed female figure crudely drawn in the top corner of the page, crouched with its hand between its knees, clutching at a large, gaping—

“Oh,” Lenten gasped at the lewd image. He dropped the book.

Catching it carefully, the boy nodded, understanding. He gave a small shrug. “It’s a fertility spell, meant for births and rebirths. New beginnings.”

“And this spell can do that? Give her a new start?” Lenten asked, his voice hoarse with reluctant hope. “It can cure her?”

Rowan frowned. “No,” he answered hesitantly. “Sorry,” he said, his voice cracked and sad, “I can’t do anything that big. I’m not nearly that powerful. I don’t even know if this will work—”

“What is it supposed to do then?” Lenten asked, hearing the frustration creeping back into his voice.

What good was his magic and books if they couldn’t save her?

“With the potion and the spell together—if it even works—” Rowan said, “I might be able to give her enough time to say goodbye.”

Lenten choked on a breath.

Goodbye.

Of course.

He shut the book as he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his hope—that foolish, gullible emotion—fail.

“I know it’s not much,” he heard Rowan say from beside him as he felt the boy’s small hand on his shoulder, “but I’d give anything to see my family again—even if it was just to say a proper goodbye.”

Lenten nodded. Yes, he’d give anything to see Ash one more time, just for the chance to say everything he wished he had but hadn’t because he hadn’t had the courage or had thought there would be time.

But there hadn’t been time.

And, in truth, there would never be enough time—it just wasn’t possible—to say everything you wanted to say to a person. With a person you love, a little time was never enough.

Nothing short of forever would do.

How could he ever say goodbye to Mei? How could he be expected to condense everything he felt for her—their past, all their present, and everything they should have had in a future that could no longer be—into a single moment?

It was an impossible situation.

The Elysium had been a very good home to him for a very long time, but, yes, sometimes it could be a very cruel place.

Lenten swallowed hard as he shook his head absently.

Maybe saying goodbye would help Mei. Give her some small amount of comfort. Before she faded away forever. Right before his eyes.

But, God, where would that leave him?

He was the one that would have to carry the memories around with him. He was the one that would have to live here in the home he made—the home they made together—and remember.

Saying goodbye might make her feel better, but it might well kill him.

He couldn’t do it.

He just couldn’t.

It was selfish and weak and reprehensible. But it was also unforgivably true.

“Lenten?” Rowan asked in the kind of worried tone that implied this wasn’t the boy’s first attempt to get his attention.

The Elysium’s stiff-spined manager straightened and turned to him, his breathing sounding harsh and labored even to him.

Swallowing hard, he said, “Talk to Mrs. Kinofuji. She might have what you’re looking for in one of the gardens or in the greenhouse.” With his jaw clenched and his shoulders tense, he spun around and headed for the door to leave. “Do what you have to,” the manager told the amateur magician curtly, before adding, “just keep me informed.”

  

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Chapter Seven: Housekeeping - Part Two

Calla

Libra: Every story has two sides. Listen to both. It may not help you fix the problem, but it will help you understand it better.

Calla crunched on the carrot stick she’d just cut. “Okay,” she granted, waving her knife in Flax’s general direction, “so say you got pulled in through the rip at the exact right time in the exact right place under the exact right circumstances, could you—theoretically—get back to the real world?”

Flax, still kneading dough, looked up at her with an eyebrow arched. “What’s with all the questions? You got some pressing engagement to get back to back home?”

Calla shrugged with a swallow. “Seems if the worlds ripped apart once, they ought to be able to again, right?”

Flax pursed his lips, sprinkling flour onto his cutting board before slicing the dough into smaller bits. “Now you’re talking quantum physics, theoretical physics, metaphysics,” he shrugged, dismissively, “a lot of -physicses. Topics which neither we are qualified to discuss.”

“But you must have some idea,” she countered teasingly. “I mean, you’re just the guy with all the answers, aren’t you? You knew what was going on with Mei before anyone. You knew about the rip.” Her gaze narrowed on the man still hunched over the flour-dusted countertop. “Tell me you don’t know more about all this than you’re letting on.”

Flax sucked a harsh breath in from the corner of his grimacing mouth, the sound making a whistling hiss through his teeth. “Darling, I think you’re giving me more credit than I deserve.” She watched as his hands deftly wrapped the beef wellingtons and lay them in neat rows on the baking sheet. “I knew about Mei because I’ve been here long enough to see the signs. You make it long enough, you will too.”

She watched as he brushed the dough-covered meat with melted butter. “I think you’re full of crap,” she told him, turning her back on him to slide the freshly cut veggies into a pan to sauté. “I think you’re hiding something.”

“And I didn’t know about the rip;” Flax continued as if Calla hadn’t spoken at all, “I guessed. But, I do suppose, that I may have heard of other cases where the worlds have met—and sometimes, merged—in the hotel’s past from other guests.”

“So it’s happened before?” Calla pushed the now sizzling contents of her pan around. “Which would logically mean that it’ll happen again.”

“Why so interested?” Flax shoved the now full sheets into the oven. “Didn’t think you were in such a fired-up rush to get back.”

She shrugged. “I’m not.” She turned down the stove’s heat. “But Rowan is. Doesn’t seem right, him having to stay here against his will.”

When he had no answer to that, she turned around, switching off the stove completely and putting her pan on the folded towel that served as a potholder next to her. “What?” she asked when she saw him standing there with his arms crossed, an expectant look on his smug face. “What?”

“Yeah,” he drawled. “What else?”

“What do you mean?”

“You want to help Danny Boy go home, good for you. What else?”

She straightened her spine and turned away, peppering the veggies in her pan without a word.

“You think,” Flax answered for her, “that maybe if you figure this out fast enough, you can send Mei on through a rip, get her back home before she checks out.”

When she didn’t answer, he reached out and took the pepper mill from her. “I think that you’ve got enough seasoning there.”

She fisted her hands on the countertop angrily. “Mei’s a good person. She doesn’t deserve to get stuck here like that. None of us do.”

She heard Flax sigh—half-laugh, half-grunt—before he grabbed her shoulder and turned her around. “This—like just about everything else in life—isn’t about what anyone deserves. It’s just what is.”

Calla stared up into his usually so easygoing face. He was a handsome bugger, with his toothpaste-commercial smile and beach-worthy bod. And, Lord, did he know it—and used it to his every advantage—often flirting reflexively with everyone around him. He was always joking with some flippant response always on the tip of his tongue. It made it hard to take him seriously sometimes.

“And, though it might be hard to think it now,” he added, turning away from her to check on the still simmering pot of gravy on the stove, “believe me, there are worse fates.”

She thought maybe he did it on purpose, act all suave and slick, so no one could get a good handle on everything going on beneath the veneer.

“Just tell me one thing,” she asked him as he turned toward her so she could stare deep into the seemingly endless black of his eyes.

“Shoot.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “You’d help Mei, if you could.” She paused, her head tilting in question. “Wouldn’t you?”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, letting the tension and silence settle heavy between them. He leaned back, his weight resting heavy on his heels. Again, his arms crossed over his chest before he nodded stiffly. “Yeah,” he told her, his tone measured and hard. “If I could.”

Calla narrowed her gaze at the man as she wondered exactly what that meant. It was evasive, a shifty sort of answer. There was something he wasn’t saying—some important omission.

But, just as she was about to ask about it, the kitchen doors opened and Lenten and Olive walked in.

Actually, Lenten strode in dragging the poor girl in tow behind him. “I need you to watch Olive,” he said without preamble to Flax.

Flax stepped away from Calla, reaching for the towel he kept tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Wiping his hands, he answered, “Sure.” He nodded to the girl. “Petunia, I’ve got potatoes in the sink that need washing. Give us a hand, if you please?”

Calla noticed how the little girl, looking nervous and reproved, peeked up at her uncle warily before he nodded. Only after having been given his consent did she move to grab a stool and start washing sulkily at the sink.

Once the water was rushing, Flax stepped forward with Calla close at his heels. In a low tone, he asked Lenten, “What’s wrong?”

Lenten turned on his heels. “Nothing,” he said as he started out of the kitchen, “I’ve just some things I need dealt with and would rather not have Olive underfoot.”

“Underfoot?” Flax slammed the door shut with a hard, fast hand before the other man could leave, effectively trapping Lenten. “Since when has she ever been underfoot?”

Lenten laid his head in his hand, frustrated. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He looked away. “It’s just that, just now, Mei…” He shook his head. “I don’t want her there when…” He trailed off again, his breathing so ragged and sharp it hurt Calla to look at it. “She’s just a child. She shouldn’t have to see that.”

“She’s seen it before,” Flax reminded the man.

Calla so wanted to ask questions—like when and who and how—but didn’t. It didn’t seem like the right time.

Later.

Flax shrugged. “She’ll see it again.”

“Not like this.” Lenten, looking much too haggard, sighed as he took off his glasses to press hard against his tired eyes. Calla watched his fingers push painfully in, pinching his lids shut, as if he could shove the images back. As if he might blind himself. “It’s different this time. Harder for her.”

“For her?” Flax scoffed, his tone biting and almost cruel. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding everyone and everything for damn near two weeks, because it’s hard for her?”

“What is it you want from me, Flax?” Lenten, turning on the man, squared off his shoulders as he shoved Flax back a step.

“I want you to admit that this doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Olive,” Flax spat out as he took a large step right back into the other man’s face. “You’re being selfish, Lenten, running like you are.”

Calla watched Lenten, his face flushed and hands and fisting, puff up even as Flax’s nostrils flared, his black eyes lit up with challenge.

“You asked me to deal with this,” Lenten stated, his calm tone belying the tension raging through both men, “that’s what I’m trying to do. Now, can you please just—for once—do what I ask. Watch Olive until I can…” He coughed before he trailed off a bit.

Flax shook his head, disgust twisting his face. “Until you can what? Lock Mei in her room? Shut her away until her time comes? Is that really how you’d have her spend her last moments?”

Lenten turned away, sniffing before letting out a strained breath.

“You’d really do that to her,” Flax accused, sounding genuinely taken aback by the man’s cold detachment.

Calla remembered how Mei had mentioned that the southern gentleman had once—a long time ago—told her he loved her. She could see it now. Not just the effervescent flirtations he shared with everyone, but some deeper emotion that was uniquely reserved for Mei burned in his gaze.

“There’s nothing I can do for her now.” Lenten's voice was rigid and quiet, each syllable forced and controlled. “I have to do what’s best for Olive. It’s what matters now.”

“I was wrong. You’re not selfish.” Flax leaned forward, poking a finger into the shorter man’s chest. “You’re heartless. Tell me, did Mei mean anything to you at all?”

Calla flinched at the shock of pure hurt in the usually composed man’s wide blue eyes, her stomach clenching at the sight. She didn’t quite understand it, but that momentary lapse in his guard shook her.

Maybe because, in that second with his defenses down, he reminded her so much of Olive.

Hooking her arm around one of Flax’s, Calla pulled, trying to tug him back further into the kitchen. “Flax, come on.” Lenten may not be one of Calla’s favorite people at the moment, but Flax was kicking where it already hurt. And, like the man or not, Calla couldn’t just stand there and let him. “Come on, we’ve got the wellies in the oven,” she said, trying for a bit of tact.

But the man wouldn’t move. He just stood there stiff and angry, glaring—practically growling—at the other stonily angry man. “You want to do what’s best for Olive? Then take a good look at your little girl there,” Flax continued, pointing a finger at the eight-year-old girl with her back turned. Who could undoubtedly hear the shouting—running water or not—but chose to stand sorry and resigned at the sink. “You may not give a damn about Mei, but Olive loves her like a mother. She’s witnessing something no little girl ever should and you think that shielding her from it—that covering her eyes and pretending it’s not happening—is going to solve anything. Her whole world is collapsing all around her; she needs more from you right now.”

“What she needs,” Calla said, trying to shove herself between the two men, “is for you two to calm down. She’s eight, not clueless.”

With no small amount of effort, she shoved Flax a few steps back, wedging herself between them. “I know, I’m the fresher in all of this. I don’t know the -physicses or the histories of any of this, but I know this chest-pounding display—while just swoon-worthy—isn’t helping her. If you two are looking for a bit of a fister, you can well beat each other senseless somewhere else.”

She put down her hands, still glaring at both men in turn. “For all the good it’ll do you.”

They all turned as the door to the kitchen opened again. The sight of Mei, standing barefoot and sad in the doorway, broke the dense, violent tension only to replace it with awkward silence.

“Mei,” Olive murmured reverently as she stepped off the stool and started for her only to be held back by Lenten.

Calla saw the woman soundlessly gasp at the restraining arm holding the small child away—as if she were a danger, a monster.

A ghost.

Calla frowned as heartbreak dragged the other woman’s face down. Swallowing hard, Mei said slowly, enunciating each syllable as she spoke, “I need to speak with you, Lenten.”

“Not right now—” he started.

“Please,” she begged, her voice straining with effort. “I need to speak with you.”

Lenten looked at her long and hard. As if sensing that this would be their very last chance—that Mei would have her say now or never again—he nodded even as his jaw stiffened.

Without a word, he picked Olive up in his arms, squeezing her gently before handing her to Flax, who held her tight even as she struggled in his embrace. Then he and Mei walked without touching through the glass door into the large, empty dining room.

“Hey there, sweet pea,” Flax said with overdone cheer as he bounced the little girl on his hip, “why don’t you help me ice the cake for dessert? There’s chocolate frosting in the fridge and the cake’s on the counter in the back.” Setting the child down on the checkered tile, he turned her away from the door and softly but firmly pushed her to the other end of the kitchen. “Go on now.”

Calla watched the child dutifully go before turning back to see Lenten, red-faced and stressed, pace as he listened to Mei as she tearfully talked. Calla winced when she saw the woman walk up to him, trying to touch his shoulder. But Lenten lurched away from her, his lips thinning. Calla couldn’t hear what they were saying through the thick kitchen door, but the image of Mei’s crumpled, dejected face, wet with wrenching pain, said everything.

“Come on.” Flax grabbed her wrist, startling her. “We’ve got dinner to deal with.”

Still struck by the scene a room away, she let herself be dragged back into the kitchen. “Why is he doing this?” Calla asked softly so Olive wouldn’t hear. “Treating her like this? I thought he—”

“He does,” Flax said, cutting her off before she could finish saying the words. He shrugged. “That’s why he’s doing this.”

Calla turned back in time to see Lenten shake his head stiffly before stalking off, leaving the weeping woman alone. Calla started toward Mei as the woman buried her face in her shaky hands miserably.

But Calla stopped, her fingers curling cruelly around the countertop edge as the woman’s shaky hands wiped at the wetness streaking her cheeks. Calla gasped, watching as Mei’s swiping fingers smeared her features as flesh met flesh and mixed with tears. Smudged traces of black, pink, and white blurred like paint as they disappeared into the beige blank.

“Oh God,” Calla breathed as she brought the back of her hand up to cover her gaping mouth.

She yelped when a hand closed over her shoulder, spinning her swiftly around until she was embraced and crushed against a warm, hard chest. Gripping the fabric pressed against her cheek, she breathed in Flax’s scent and let him give her what comfort he could.

Good Lord, she’d known.

In her mind, she could logic out all the whats and whens and hows of it.

But actually seeing it.

Rationally, she knew it wasn’t much. It wasn’t graphic or gory. Yet, even in it bloodlessness, the impossible erasure was shocking. Like watching someone’s humanity being peeled away.

“Do you know if it hurts?” she asked Flax softly, so softly she barely heard herself.

He held her tighter as he shook his head, the scratchy stubble on his cheek chafing her skin.

She didn’t know if he meant that he didn’t know or that it didn’t hurt.

She knew which answer she preferred and took the small comfort, not caring if it was a true or not.

They stood like that for a long, silent moment, before she stepped away from him and sniffed. She looked through the glass door out into the empty dining room.

“You okay?” he asked.

She shot him a disbelieving glare. How do you answer a question like that at a time like this?

He nodded and shrugged. “Come on.” He cocked his head toward the oven. “It’s about time to check on dinner.”

Calla followed his gaze, but settled on the small child staring at them, a look too old and too pained for an eight year old heavy on her face.

Calla wanted to cry for the child.

Flax laid a hand on her shoulder again before walking past to chatter and distract little Olive. Wiping her eyes, Calla reached for the oven mitts, letting Flax’s soothing voice ease her too.

READ PART THREE

 

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