Dreams and Shadows - By C. Robert Cargill Page 0,122
He looked down at the remainder solemnly. “Whiskey,” he said. “You’re my only friend.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” called a voice from behind him.
“If you’re here to apologize,” said Yashar, “I don’t accept.”
“Oh, we’re not here to apologize,” said another voice. “We’re here to grant you your final wish.” Yashar, now in something of a stupor, slowly turned around to look behind him. His mind was fuzzy, his reactions sluggish. Two redcaps leered at him, fondling an all-too-familiar bottle. While it had no name of its own, Yashar knew it by its inscription and the names of the djinn it had held in the past. He knew the name of every djinn that had died in that bottle. And it was only fitting now that he was going to join them.
“Well, that figures,” he said. “What took you so long?”
“Traffic,” joked one of the redcaps.
“Not you, asshole,” said Yashar. “I was talking to the bottle.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
THE PROMISE OF TOMORROW
Ewan sat cross-legged on the floor of his apartment, pike by his side, grease pencil firmly in hand. Furiously, he scribbled over a torn-out sheet of artists’ paper—a picture of a little girl. Of Mallaidh. He scribbled and scrawled, trying to scrape away the memory, but it held fast, lingering painfully, just out of reach—an itch he couldn’t scratch. The page was a stain of black grease, small patches of white paper peering out beneath it. As he finished, he crumpled the sheet, threw it behind him into a growing pile already three dozen deep, cast out his arm, and tore another from the wall.
Ewan’s eyes were growing cold, the pupils swelling, overtaking the color of each iris. His stubble sprouted into whiskers, his skin flush with color, his cheeks rosy above patches of thickening bristle.
A dull throb beat in the back of his skull. He felt feverish, but dry; restless, but fatigued. His mouth felt like it was full of sand, no amount of water slaking his thirst or chasing the leather from his tongue. Something strange paced back and forth in his gut—an ill-tempered beast clawing from inside his rib cage, raking the bars with its talons, pounding to be let loose. Harder and harder, it raked and pounded, begging Ewan to lash out, to strike the nearest thing—to break the world one piece at a time, to slit a throat, any throat, and quench his thirst on the spatter.
There came a knock at the door.
“What’s the safe word?” he grumbled loudly, relieved by the distraction.
There was no answer.
“Safe word! What is it?” he called out again, rising to his feet.
“I don’t know it,” said a quiet voice from behind the door. He recognized it immediately. It was Nora.
He approached the door, his face inches from it. “We don’t have anything to say to each other.”
“You know that’s not true,” she said.
“Fine. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“You’re lying. I’ll bet you can’t stop thinking of things you can’t wait to tell me. Or call me. Or whatever.”
Ewan unlatched the door, flinging it open. Mallaidh stood meekly behind it, disguised as Nora. She appeared small, frail, and delicate, swallowed whole by the darkness surrounding her outside. She looked up at him, her eyes welling with tears, lip quivering at the very sight of him. His heart burst. He’d known that this would be tough, but had no idea that his insides would turn to jelly just seeing her. The pacing beast in his belly stayed its wrath, held back a few moments longer.
He swallowed hard. “Don’t you dare look like her,” he said. “That’s not you. That person doesn’t exist.”
Mallaidh shook off the disguise like a duck would water—everything Nora falling away, replaced by lithe, tender features draped in long blond hair. She nodded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know which one of us you wanted to see.”
“Neither,” he said drily. The throbbing in his head had stopped, but the bitterness remained.
A swollen tear formed in the corner of her eye before plummeting down her cheek. This time his heart broke completely. He took her up in his arms, wrapping them completely around her, her head nestled squarely against his chest, her arms grappled as tightly around his waist as they could. Any semblance of composure she had hoped to maintain eroded, setting free a torrent of choked sobs. “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why did you lie to me?” he asked.
She looked up at him, trembling. “I’ve never lied to you. Never.”