Dreams of Shreds and Tatters (16 page)

Dark eyes narrowed. “Can you help me find it? This door?”

She hesitated, listening for distant music, feeling the ebb and tug inside her. “I think so.”

Lailah grinned, sharp enough to remind her of the maenads again. “Then get your coat on. We’re going hunting.”

S
UNDAY CAME WITH
a heavy smothering sky, perpetual twilit grey. Liz welcomed it. She would have wrapped the gloom around her like a blanket if she could—anything to hide the stars. To hide
from
them.

Chills and fever rode her in turns, and she wasn’t sure if they were the work of her hand—a sickening pulse of pain, the bandage spotted with rosettes of rust and yellow—or of what she’d seen. Where she’d been. Her head felt soft and swollen, like something overripe and rotting inside. Blood stained her pillow, crusted in the fine hair above her ear and itched inside her nostrils. She wanted to scrub herself clean down to the bones, but the urge to remain small and silent and unnoticed held her.

Alex came and went, not quite in sync with her clarity. She’d expected recriminations, lectures and hospitals, but there was no trace of last night’s argument in his face today. She almost preferred it to the sick worry that had taken its place. His long face was thinner than usual, hollow cheeked and hollow eyed.

She swallowed the chalky antibiotics when he pressed them on her, but couldn’t stand the thought or smell of food. He spoke, and she wanted to answer, to reassure him, but the words were lost, drowned deeper than her voice could reach.

She was alone in the bedroom when her phone rang. The buzz and rattle stripped away the layers of fog and cored into the chewy, pain-filled center of her skull. She waited for it to stop, but it kept on, shaking itself across the nightstand in its impatience. Finally she thrashed free of the blankets to reach it.

Unknown caller
, the screen read. But she thought she knew, even as she pressed the button. “Hello?” Her voice cracked and she had to repeat the word. Unthinking, she brushed sweaty bangs off her forehead left-handed and swallowed against a spike of nausea.

“Liz?” Rainer’s voice was nearly as ugly as hers. She hadn’t given him her number, but that was insignificant compared to all the other things she had to ask him. A long pause followed, until she thought the line had gone dead. “I need to talk to you,” he said at last. He sounded as bad as she felt. “About Blake. Please.”

Something sick and desperate in that
please
. Something helpless. She looked down at her bandaged hand, wiggled stiff and swollen fingers. It was dangerous, and stupid, and she didn’t want to face the darkness or the stars. But he’d said the magic word. “When?”

“Tonight, after seven. There’s a party at the gallery.” His breath echoed through the connection. “Thank you.”

She was still staring at the phone when Alex returned, a brown paper Tim Hortons bag tucked under one arm and a cup in each hand. He opened his mouth when he saw her, but what came out was a cough.

“How do you feel?” he asked when the spasm passed.

“Better.” It wasn’t exactly true, but it seemed the safest answer. How bad did she look, to warrant the concern on his face? She took the cup of tea and bagel he offered to make it more convincing. She breathed in peppermint steam until her stomach calmed.

She concentrated on the food to avoid Alex’s expression. Caution and pedantry she was used to; anger and condemnation she could withstand—but there was nothing she could do against his naked concern. She couldn’t promise the things he wanted to hear.

“I’m going back to the gallery tonight.” She said it fast, like ripping off a band-aid. She set aside her half-eaten bagel. “Rainer wants to talk to me. You don’t have to come.”

Alex frowned and coughed again. He glanced toward the window, quick and distrustful, as if he feared the sky as much as she did. Then he crouched in front of her, laying a hand on her knee. “I don’t think party separation is wise, under the circumstances.”

Relief pushed the air out of her lungs. She couldn’t find the words to tell him how much she needed that quiet phlegmatism right now. Instead she smiled, threading her fingers through his. “Thank you.”

Then she stood, forcing her legs to hold her, and stumbled toward the bathroom. She had to find another mask to wear.

T
HINK OF IT
as another faculty party,
Alex told himself as they climbed the gallery’s marble stair. The landing was warm with body heat, the air heavy with brittle laughter and the smell of alcohol. If the university’s history department were filled with drug dealers and cultists, the resemblance would be uncanny.

And now that he thought of it, could he really be sure it wasn’t? Cultists couldn’t be any worse than Oxfordians.

“What is the plan, exactly?” he asked Liz as they faced the crowd. Her good hand was cool in his, but he could feel her trembling.

“I’m going to find Rainer. You can mingle, if you like.”

Her voice was light, carefully nonchalant, and he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she acknowledged the gravity of the situation. His free hand tightened and he shoved his fist into his pocket.

“We can’t trust them, you know.” He lowered his voice, though the chatter drowned them out. “We can’t trust anyone here.”

Her smile vanished, eyes becoming cool and unreadable as agates. “I know. I’ll be careful.”

Before he could think of a response, Antja slunk through the press to greet them. Her maquillage was even more cunning than Liz’s; one wouldn’t imagine she did anything but host parties, let alone that she’d nearly been killed the day before. The high neck of her burgundy sweater hid her throat.

“Quite a crowd,” Alex said, a sacrificial offering of small talk. As if this were nothing but another social function.

Antja rolled her eyes. “They’re here for the free food.” Her face might be flawless, but her voice was still husky and strained. “Rainer planned this party months ago. Before...” She lifted one hand in a shrug.

“Where is Rainer?” Liz asked.

Antja shrugged, dark hair sliding like a veil across her shoulders. “Hiding somewhere. Probably in his office.” She gestured toward a hallway on the other side of the stairs. A man greeted her in passing and she turned to smile at him, a dazzling expression that vanished as soon as she looked away. “I have to keep mingling. If you want out of this mess, you can go upstairs.”

Because that had worked so well last time. Alex rolled his shoulders against a creeping chill.

“Let me talk to Rainer,” Liz said after Antja was gone. She squeezed his hand. “Then we can leave.”

He looked down at her hazel eyes, searching for something to say, searching for his Liz beneath her brittle veneer. But he didn’t find either, and then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd. Alex stared after her, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. When she was out of sight, he went looking for a drink.

Armed with a glass of Chardonnay, he retreated to a dim corner to watch the festivities. If he didn’t concentrate, the noise washed over him, bright and meaningless as birdsong. Most of the guests passed him by without a glance. The wine, while nothing to rave about, was a notch above the Chateau Screwcap usually served at university functions. If Liz didn’t come back soon, he might have a second glass.

He watched Antja work the crowd, playing hostess. She should have been a politician. He would have believed her brilliant smiles, but for the ease with which she discarded them. Her shoulders slumped when she thought no one was looking.

The crowd seemed ordinary enough—broken into cliques and clusters, swirling currents of conversation. Doubtless full of the same name-dropping and backstabbing and bed hopping as any other group. And maybe some of them enjoyed chemical diversions and gruesome art. Maybe some of them were jealous or vicious enough to shove two men into a freezing lake. But none of that explained the monsters in the shadows, melting corpses and that terrible red sky. Nothing explained any of it, except madness, or the walls of reality shifting around him. And no matter how he might wish otherwise, Alex felt all too sane.

He was on his third glass of wine when Antja passed him again. She nearly walked on as obliviously as the rest, but stopped with a double-take.

“I didn’t expect you to come back tonight.” Hard to tell through her cool facade, but she didn’t sound unhappy about it.

He shrugged and looked down at his glass. “I’m here with Liz. She and Rainer are having a tête-à-tête.”

She frowned, nostrils flaring. Alex drained his glass and marshaled his nerve. “I think we need to know what the hell is going on around here.”

Her lips tightened and she didn’t meet his eye. For a moment he thought she would refuse. “All right,” she said instead. “That’s only fair.”

She caught another woman’s arm and pressed her into service as a backup hostess. When she turned back she was smiling again. Her armor, he realized, as much as Liz’s altruism and his own causticity. Or his drinking. He grimaced and set his empty glass aside.

“Follow me,” Antja said, beckoning him down the hallway. “I still owe you a drink, anyway.”

If it was armor, he might as well be properly fortified. He followed.

L
IZ LEFT THE
crowd behind, and the noise receded until the only sound was the tap of her boots on the tile and the nearly subliminal hum of the lights. She tugged at the hem of her sweater, but stopped when she imagined security cameras capturing her nerves. She missed the red dress and the poise it lent her.

Rainer’s muted voice answered her knock, and she eased the door open to find him sitting behind a desk, elbows propped and fingers steepled. His eyes were shadowed, cheeks dark with stubble. Nice to know she wasn’t the only one losing sleep.

“Yes.” He half rose and beckoned her inside. “Thank you for coming.”

The door clicked shut behind her as she stepped into shadows and lamplight. She kept her beringed and bandaged hands in her coat pockets despite the room’s warmth. Her head was foggy with painkillers, but at least the sickening pain in her hand had dulled.

“I’m being a terrible host tonight.” Rainer shoved a stack of papers across the polished desktop and set an open bottle of wine in their place. “Antja will skin me when I finally show my face.”

Liz shook her head when he offered her a glass. She wondered how much he’d already had—his accent was deeper than usual, his gaze less focused. The change from two nights ago was unnerving. He’d been so collected at the opening, cool and assured. Now he looked as bad as she felt. She quashed an upswell of sympathy.

“You wanted to talk about Blake.” Her throat was dry and she wished for wine after all, but it was contraindicated by both her medicine and her common sense. She couldn’t play at small talk, not after last night.

“Yes.” Rainer stared at his glass, then drained it in a single gulp. “You said you dreamt of Blake. Of Carcosa. What did you see? Please,” he said when she hesitated. “What do you see?”

She couldn’t trust him, but his eyes were so tired and shadowed and desperate. She swallowed. “I saw him drowning. Then he washed up on the shores of Carcosa. He’s there now, in the city. In the palace of the king.” She glanced in the direction of the maze, and the painting waiting at its heart.

Rainer stood, dark brows knitting, and circled the desk, leaning against the near side. “Can you find him? Can you bring him back?”

His gaze was focused now, tipsiness vanished. It pinned her like an insect on a card. “I… I don’t know.”

He pushed off the desk, stopped again as if caught by a leash. Tension tightened his neck and shoulders. “I need you to try.”

“I have tried!” Too loud, and she flushed. “I am trying. It’s not easy.”

He exhaled and retreated a few inches. “No. I’m sorry. I just don’t know what else to do.”

“Neither do I.” She folded her arms under her chest, pressing sweaty palms against her coat. “But I’ll do what I can. What I have to.”

Rainer sighed. “You love him.”

“Of course.” And belatedly she parsed his intensity, the catch in his voice when he said Blake’s name. “You do too.”

His shoulders sagged and he turned away. “God help me. I do.”

Love or limerence? Care or desire? She didn’t understand where other people drew those lines. And in the end, did it matter? The absence of lust had never seemed to make her own relationships less complicated. “Does he know?”

He laughed once, raw and humorless. “I’ve never said anything, if that’s what you mean.”

She remembered Blake’s sketchbook, Rainer’s electric eyes captured in harsh pencil strokes. She clenched her right hand until the ring dug into her flesh. This wasn’t the time for distractions. “What the hell is going on? You were at the cabin that night, weren’t you? I saw the blood. I’ve seen what happens to people on mania. I’ve seen a lot of things I don’t understand—Carcosa, the king. What happened to Blake?”

He slumped against the desk again. “I don’t know anymore. I thought I did, but… Blake opened a door. Then everything went to hell. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“What was it supposed to be?”

“Something beautiful. I only wanted—” He dragged a hand across his face. So tired. Tired and aching and helpless as she was. It was a trap and she was rushing headlong into it. She didn’t know what else to do.