Page 33 of Dearly Departed

I’m the nightmare. I’m the fucking nightmare. I’m the thing that came to scare her at the door. I wanted inside. I wanted to scare her. I wanted to hurt her.

No. No. No. That cannot be true. I’ve never wanted to scare Catherine.

She presses her lips together, the color fading. Ice particles collect on her eyelashes. Her clothes shift, becoming pieces I don’t recognize, becoming her riding clothes. The plain wall of the restroom fades out behind her, and in its place is a forest covered in snow.

It must be me. I must be the one freezing us to death. A part of me I thought I’d left behind approves, because if I’m cold, I’m doing something right. I’m sticking with the plan. I’m keeping myself in check.

But Catherine’s teeth chatter, so we can’t stay here.

She frowns at me. “You acted like you were interested in me.”

“Who said I wasn’t interested?”

Her honey eyes glitter. “I knew you’d say that. You did the same things to everyone else in the room. All the women who were there fell for you, and half of the men.”

“It was more than half.”

She smiles, wide and sharp, almost as if she’ll laugh.

Catherine doesn’t laugh. The smile dies away. Her face falls into such complete disappointment that I feel it in my toes.

“You’re not like that anymore. I don’t want you like this. You’re embarrassing.”

I haven’t felt so small in years. I don’t mean to flinch away, but once I’ve done it, I can’t stop. I don’t have any idea what I’m reaching for. My hand meets something soft.

“I don’t have to eat. I won’t. Don’t let me. I know what I look like. I’ll be better as soon as I can.”

“Jacob.” A cool hand on my shoulder. A breeze? “Jacob. Can you hear me? This is, like, not good, and I’m starting to get really freaked⁠—”

Catherine’s voice fades out. Where did she go? I turn around to look for her, but the forest is empty, and there’s no snow. It’s all melted away to reveal huge leaves and brilliant green bushes and plants with blood-red flowers blooming from stems. The petals look dangerously sharp. They look like they’re already bleeding. Droplets fall from the tips of the petals onto the green leaves below in a steady dripdripdrip. If it gets any louder, it’ll be rain. How many of those fucking flowers are there? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how many?

“Jacob.” Her voice comes from a different direction. “I’m over here.”

I can’t see her.

Something cool touches my face. It moves carefully over my forehead and my cheeks. The heat relents. It doesn’t go away, but it eases just enough that my lungs only feel like they might melt and not as if they’re actively melting.

“Jacob,” Catherine says. More of that blessed cool. A washcloth, I think. “Jacob, wake up. I need you to tell me what to do.”

I would have sworn on any holy book that my eyes were already open. Now they feel pinned shut. I don’t want to disappoint Catherine, however, so I summon all my strength and will and pry them open.

It does not feel good. In the process of summoning all my strength, I put myself firmly in the midst of a wave of hellish sensations. Every cut on my body is raw and open. My heartbeat is part of my skin. My jaw aches.

Catherine looks down at me, and after a few beats, I understand that she’s perched on the side of the bed in the mysterious cottage we found. It’s real, unless this another dream. I don’t think it is. My vision was clear in my dreams. Here, in the cottage, everything shimmers, including Catherine. I can see her, shimmering, because it’s daytime. Sunlight washes in through the cottage’s two windows. The breeze blows daintily across my forehead.

“Did I—” Talking is an arduous task. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. I’m very good at talking. I’m very charming. It shouldn’t hurt like this, or be so difficult to choose the right words. “Did I wake you?”

“No, of course not.” I think Catherine might be lying. “I’m sorry I had to wake you up. I don’t know what to do, and I think it’s—” Her chin wobbles. “I think it might be pretty bad.”

“What might be pretty bad?”

“You have a fever. It’s really high.” Catherine glances down at my torso. With the effort of my life, I push myself up on my elbow and follow her gaze. Oh—she’s right. That is quite bad. The scratches on my sides were reopened, some of them deeper than before, and they’re surrounded by red, inflamed skin. “And I think your cuts are infected.”

I drop back onto the pillow. “Oh, don’t worry, kitten. It’ll sort itself out. I just need a nap.”

11

CATHERINE