In self-defense, I try to tickle him back, but it turns out there’s not a single ticklish spot on him. So then I try to roll him over, but he’s so much stronger than I am that he’s not budging unless he wants to. Finally I decide to fight dirty—since he obviously has no problem doing so—and I deliberately wiggle so that my breasts are pressed against his chest and my legs are tangled with his.
I can tell the moment he registers what I’ve done, because the laughter leaves his eyes. Is replaced by the intensity I know so well. And then he’s inside me once more.
This time is slow and sweet and gentle, him easing me to completion rather than hurtling me there. And when it’s over, when he slips out of me before pulling the covers over my nearly comatose body, it occurs to me that I never tried to connect with Shelby.
Forcing my impossibly heavy eyelids open, I plan on telling Declan what I want to do as soon as I can muster enough energy to lift my head from the pillow. And find him watching me with wary, worried eyes. Too tired to do more than brush a comforting hand down his cheek, I snuggle against him and decide that we can talk later.
It’s not until I’m drifting off to sleep that the truth occurs to me. That Declan deliberately distracted me with sex and tickling and that strong, beautiful body of his for the express purpose of keeping me from using my powers.
For the express purpose of keeping me from trying to find Shelby.
One more thought flits through my brain before exhaustion takes me over. What does he know that I don’t?
* * *
It’s dark.
I’m scared.
Cold.
Hungry.
Please, mister. Please don’t turn the lights off. Please don’t put me in the dark again. I promise I won’t do it again. Please. I don’t like the dark.
The voice in my head is young and feminine and scared. So scared. I try to figure out who it is, where it’s coming from, but nothing is making sense. I was with Declan, at my house—
Please! The little girl is crying now, and in pain. I try to pinpoint the pain, to see what’s causing it, but there’s so much of it. Everything hurts. Everything burns, aches, throbs.
It’s okay. I try to speak to her. Honey, it’s okay. Stop crying now. It’s okay.
She doesn’t hear me.
Sweetie, please. I make my voice louder, more forceful. Tell me where you are. Tell me how I can help you.
She still doesn’t answer.
The pain is getting worse—hers, mine, I can’t tell. Everything’s all muddled and I’m having a terrible time thinking straight. I know something is wrong, with the girl, with me, but I can’t figure out what it is.
Sweetie. I try again. Where are you? Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.
She doesn’t stop crying, but I hear her inhale sharply and I know that my voice has finally gotten through.
Who are you? she asks.
My name is Xandra. What’s your name?
She sniffles a little and I get the impression that she’s wiping her face. I’m Shelby.
The name strikes a chord in me. I wrack my brain, try to figure out how I know it—how I know her—but nothing comes. It’s like everything before this moment is a totally blank slate.
I know I should be concerned by that, but for some reason I’m not. It’s nice to meet you, Shelby, I say after a few moments of trying to get a handle on what’s going on.
It’s nice to meet you, too. She sniffles some more, but at least she’s not crying anymore.
Can you tell me what’s wrong? Maybe I can help.
I want my mommy.
Of course you do, sweetheart. Can you tell me where she is? I can get her for you?
She’s at home.
Where’s home?
Two-four-seven-one Sycamore Street. Her singsongy words are the musical recitation of a small child who has just memorized her address for the first time.
And where are you? Are you near Sycamore Street?
Fear.
Confusion.
Tears.
She’s crying in earnest now, harsh, heartbreaking sounds that rip at me with each shaky inhalation she takes. I feel terrible, don’t want to push her, but I need any help she can give me.
I don’t know. I don’t know where I am. It’s dark. I’m scared. Please get my mommy. Please, Xandra.
Her confusion becomes mine, her fear tearing at me like the sharpest claws.
Oh no!
What’s wrong? I snap out, responding to the increased urgency in her voice.
He’s coming back.
Who’s coming back?
She doesn’t answer. Shelby! Shelby! Are you okay? Who’s coming back?
No, no, no! She’s wild now, hysterical. Pain drips from every syllable.
Shelby! I try to reach for her, but there’s a wall between us, one I can’t get through no matter how hard I batter at it. Shelby! I call again, but there’s still no answer. Terror swamps me, threatens to pull me under. I fight it, but it’s nearly impossible—especially when the pain starts. Deep, agonizing, a razor-sharp blade raking across my upper thigh.