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It’s my last jagged thought before I finally succumb to the darkness.
29
ELLA
I’m stuckin a Hall of Mirrors.
Everywhere I look I see monsters with smirking faces and black eyes. I try to run from them, spinning wildly like I did on the sidewalk earlier, but I keep tripping over dead bodies with blood pouring from their mouths. I’m choking on my panic. My chest is tight with fear… I’m crying out for Edier, but he never comes. He never answers.
The scene changes. That veil flutters again, giving me another glimpse and foretaste of that same memory.
Hurtados.
The bruja called him EdierHurtados.
When I was a child, I was told never to ask Edier about his life before he came toEl Refugio.My mother called it ‘respecting boundaries’, but the warning was unnecessary. I knew there was something dark trailing behind him. I was as fascinated by it as he was by my happiness and light, and I think that’s what drew us together from the beginning.
As time went on, I saw the sadness in his drawings. I saw the way his eyes strayed to the horizon constantly, as if he could sense something waiting for him behind the high stone walls ofEl Refugio, prowling up and down like a restless tiger. He knew there was no escaping it, and when thebrujashowed up she was just a catalyst for the inevitable…
With a soft gasp, I open my eyes to a new darkness and a new unfamiliarity. This bed isn’t mine. The sheets smell too strongly of him, and cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air. There are dark blinds at the windows, not the colorful geometric prints I found in a souk in Marrakech three summers ago. One of the slats is caught at an untidy angle, and it’s taking in moonlight like a sinking ship.
I’m wearing a black T-shirt that’s miles too big for me. My stomach muscles ache and there’s a sour taste in my mouth, but at least the worst of the nausea has passed. The clock reads four a.m., and when I fumble for the light switch there’s a glass of water on the nightstand, plus all my meds stacked up in a neat pile next to it.
“Go back to sleep,Mi Cielo.”
My head snaps to the left. Edier’s sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, his long legs stretched out in front of him, almost touching the bed. He’s watching me through half-lidded eyes with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, like he’s some carelessly chic Parisian model. God knows, he’s beautiful enough to be one, despite the undone state of the rest of him. His shirt is creased, the cuffs loose at his wrists and rolled back a couple of times, more as an afterthought than a conscious decision. His black hair is an angry mess and there’s at least two days’ worth of stubble darkening his jaw.
One hand is resting on a bottle of Macallan with far too much familiarity for it to be a nightcap. My guess is he’s been drinking it all night.
“You look how I feel,” I mutter, turning to face him. “And the answer is rarely at the bottom of a bottle, or so I’ve been told.”
“Helps to dull the decision, though.” He swipes the cigarette from his mouth and crushes it into the ashtray like it’s offending him. His voice matches his appearance: ragged and raw.
What decision?
“I think we should have gone to China.” I smile, but it’s a weak mockery of a thing. I can’t shake the air of finality in this room and it’s scaring me more than my nightmares. “We should have stolen my father’s private jet and risked it.”
He leans his head back against the wall and considers my words. “How many animals would we have rescued?”
“Thousands.” I pull the white bedsheet closer to my chest and tuck it under my bare arm for comfort. “Millions, even… To make up for all the times my father said I wasn’t allowed to have a pet. Childhood rebellion at its finest—”
“Stop.” He cuts me off mid-stream and takes a swig of Macallan, making a face as it burns. “I figured you’d grown out of wordy digressions.”
“You can’t grow out of stuff like that. They just go into hibernation for a while, like bears and hedgehogs and—”
“Ella, look at me.” His dark gaze locks onto mine, and I find myself holding my breath.
I don’t want his next words to give weight to that horrible sense of finality. It’s like I’m back in Dr. Bailey’s office again, waiting for another one of her sighs.
In the end, I get jittery and break the silence first.
“Is this your apartment?”
“Yes.”
I glance around, taking in the stark selection of furniture and the lack of pictures on the walls. It’s not a home, it’s an existence. Joyless and functional.
He deserves so much more than this.
