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Every accusation hit her like a punch. Her friend didn’t even know the half of it. Without her medication—a supposed death sentence for someone in her situation—she had thrived.
Maintaining a neutral expression was difficult, but she managed it. “Here’s an idea. You’re finally fully senile?”
“Oh! And you always smell like fresh-cut roses, especially when you sweat. It’s nauseating.”
“I’m wearing too much Chantel N°5?”
“Don’t get cute with me, hon. You might look like your avatars with those big round eyes and bigger red lips, but you’ve got darkness in you, and it’s only intensified since your surgery. No,” she interjected when Cookie opened her mouth to respond. “Don’t tell me I’m imagining this stuff. Tell me what the new heart has done to my best friend.”
She wanted to. She did. A couple hundred times, she’d almost done it. But what if someone listened to their conversation? Yesterday morning she’d mentioned a jones for pancakes with homemade strawberry jelly. By noon, ads for pancakes and special jellies were popping up on every website she visited.
Call her a conspiracy nut, but spies were everywhere, eavesdropping always. If word about her changes ever spread, she might end up imprisoned in a government lab. One of the many reasons she’d skipped her last few medical checkups. Sticking with silence struck her as the best option.
Return to me.
Cookie gave an involuntary jolt. The deep, husky voice had drifted through her head, seeming to rise from a long-buried memory. That timbre...more sensual than a caress.
This wasn’t the first time she’d heard those three little words. Like every time before, she yearned to obey. But return where? And why? How? Who was the speaker?
Feeling as if she were being watched again, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Soft, lush grass greeted her. Trees with swaying limbs. The farmhouse remained in view, an adorable travesty of peeling paint and broken boards she still hadn’t gotten around to fixing. The perfect metaphor for her old life. Neglected, forgotten, and beaten to heck by storms.
Everything looked well, no one openly following her. But. Dude. Unease skittered down her spine.
She needed to shake this stupid paranoia, and fast.
“Pay attention to me,” Pearl Jean snapped. “What do you know about the donor?”
Right. “Not much,” she admitted. “I’m told she was my age and involved in some kind of accident. The family doesn’t want to have contact with any of the organ recipients.”
Seriously, was someone watching her?
“Be honest. Do you have superpowers or something?” Pearl Jean hit a bump, the lid popping off her squeeze bottle, sweet tea splashing over the rim and overflowing from its holder. “You can tell me. And you don’t have to worry. I’m sure I’ll probably learn to accept your freakishness in the future. After all, home is where heart is, and heart is where Cookie is.”
Her throat tightened. Dang this woman. “Did you just speak Cookie Monster to me?” Winning another little piece of my heart.
Pearl Jean humphed. “Maybe.”
“Fine. You want to talk, we’ll talk.” After throwing another suspicious glance over her shoulder, she picked up Suggy. “But only when we’re in the house.”
“No. No more waiting.” Pearl Jean drove the scooter in front of Cookie, stopping her. “We’re not leaving this spot until you explain what’s happening.”
Was there anyone more stubborn?
She looked over her shoulder. Left. Right. The unease amplified. “One way or another, we’re going inside. Move it or lose it.”
Her urgency proved as contagious as an imaginary disease. For once, Pearl Jean didn’t argue. “Yes. Let’s go inside.”
In unison, they hustled toward the house. Halfway there, the butterfly people reappeared, zooming past Cookie, then backtracking to fly circles around her. When she drew up short, the two stopped with her, hovering nearby. Watching her.
She noted other details. Human faces, around twenty years old...human bodies the size of her index finger. Both beings were clad in clover leaves. The female had shoulder-length blue hair and white wings, while the male had white hair and blue wings.
“Please tell me you’re seeing this,” she croaked.
“Seeing what?” The scooter beeped as Pearl Jean backtracked, returning to her side. Worry clouded her expression. “Cookie! Seeing what?” she insisted.
“I don’t know. Yet. But I’m ready to find out.” Trembling, she passed Suggy to her friend, then reached out. The butterfly people didn’t mist upon contact this time, but they didn’t appreciate her action, either. They hissed at her, revealing sharp white fangs.
Danger! Her fingers heated in an instant. The sizzle started in her bones and radiated through her pores.
She jerked backward and snapped, “Take Sugars in the house, Pearl Jean.” She’d never used such a harsh tone with her friend, but she meant business.
“You can’t—”
“Go. Now.” The heat spread over her palms, and she groaned. She shook her hands, surprised when literal flames failed to ignite. Wait. What was that?
Her jaw slacked as green leaves budded from her fingers. Coffee spilled as the wineglass slipped from her grip. Horror and confusion bombarded her. Vines uncoiled, extending past her nails. Growing. Twining together and slithering over the ground.
