Page 37 of Inextricably Tied

“How much?”

“Enough to see what your mind goes back to.”

Her eyes harden, but she doesn’t concede anything. “Then why do you keep looking?”

“I like seeing you scared.” Dark flames curl wickedly up his face. “It’s what I do.”

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t seem put off by it. Doesn’t continue the conversation either, returning to her notes as the TV hums. Now she’s unfocused, lifting a piece of paper between her fingers, hovering before she remembers to set it down.

“You’ve touched Flint too, right? You two are connected?”

Harbinger’s eyes slide to Agony before she picks up another notecard. “Yes…”

“What does it feel like when he dreams?”

Her fingers flick back and forth over the card’s edge, hesitant to answer. Like she’s giving something away that she shouldn’t. “It’s more and less.” A self-deprecating laugh escapes at her poor description. “Emotions are more refined in dreams. Less detailed. Classic, discernible blocks compared to the shades and degrees when someone’s awake.”

That’s how she feels to Agony, when he dips into her sleeping mind. She clicks open a pen, scrawling across a sheet of paper. “In Flint’s dreams, happiness is yellow. But when he’s awake, sometimes it’s amber, sometimes it’s gold, sometimes it’s honey.”

When she glances toward Flint, her face softens, as if this is one of the few moments he’s this relaxed. This free of worry. This content.

“The medicine definitely has an effect. Usually, he can’t fall asleep for hours.” Her eyes flash to Agony. “So don’t get your hopes up. But when he does sleep, it’s never well. I don’t know what he dreams about, but more often than not, it’s…” Her brows knit. “Unnerving. Full of anguish. Bitter.”

But she can’t ask him about them, Agony suspects, because that would mean addressing the feelings that arise in her own dreams. Already, she darts past them, edging back to safer territory.

“He doesn’t hold back emotions while he sleeps. I don’t think he can. But he keeps such a handle on them when he’s awake that his sleeping feelings can be overwhelming. Ebb and flow with no rhyme or reason. At least, none that I can see.” She knocks a stack of notecards against her knee. “I feel the reaction, but I have no idea what caused it.”

“Do you prefer that? Having access to his emotions without a filter?”

“What? No.” The words leap from her mouth. Agony lifts his brows as pink warms her cheeks. “I know why he controls his emotions,” she explains. “I know he wants to keep from overwhelming me.” Teeth dig into her lip. Agony’s eyes follow it. “But it’s like he’s holding something else back. When I only get a piece of whatever he’s repressing, it’s almost worse, because I know there’s something that he’s not saying. Something he’s trying to spare me from.”

She turns her attention back to the documents, but her focus is elsewhere. “And it’s not fair for me to bring it up, because most people don’t have this sort of insight. I’m invading his privacy. So he hides his feelings, and I pretend like I haven’t felt them, and we both…” She exhales. “Lie to ourselves. And each other.”

“Have you told him that?”

She leans back from the piles of cards. “No.”

Agony does his best to cross his arms. “Do you ever address your own feelings?”

“I get enough of other people’s emotions. I don’t need to slog through mine.” She shakes her head, shuffling the cards together. “And I’m not interested in advice from someone who was born, what, two days ago? Not to mention the horrendous people skills.”

“My entire purpose is to pinpoint what distresses people. And I’ve been out in the world for at least a week, thank you.”

She won’t tell Agony much more than that. The rest of the night passes under the buzz of the TV, her notes scrawled across paper between pockets of conversation that break off any time Flint stirs. When the morning news begins, Agony rocks in his chair. “You should turn me back around.”

Cards scatter across the floor when she fumbles to her feet. “Shit. Right.” She tiptoes across the space, warring with guilt when sunlight starts to creep up Flint’s body.

“Don’t worry,” Agony purrs as she turns him back to face the wall like she’s been tampering with evidence. “It’ll be our little secret.”

TWELVE

Agony

There’s some kind of syndrome — Agony can’t remember the name — where prisoners develop affection for their captors. Or maybe it’s captors sympathizing with their victims.

In either case, he’s sure it’s fake. But it does lead him to wonder exactly what’s happening in these motel rooms.

Harbinger and Flint are captivating. Alluring. Entertaining enough to pass the hours, even if Agony has no control over what happens in this real world.