The Deaths of Me (NEW ADULT REWORK)

16. Rory's First Gala

Although prepared for martyrdom, I preferred that it be postponed.

--Winston Churchill

A rush of air invaded her body in the darkness. A gasp. Rory was alive.

She felt like she was drowning in a heavy basket of towels. She jerked left and right until she was sitting up. She dragged in air in deep waves until her head hurt.

Her eyes opened and, after a few ragged breaths, adjusted to the dimly lit room. There was nothing but forest green walls, the bed she lay in, and a nightstand with a small lamp atop it. Where was she? In one quiet swoop, Rory tossed the covers off of her and found herself clothed in an entirely different manner than she'd died in. Technically, she'd died naked, as no clothes she ever wore withstood the pyre that consumed her, but the ensemble she currently sported was not the baggy, second-hand garments she remembered putting on before. She inexplicably wore a tight blue tank top and a pair of black cotton shorts.

Groggily, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and the soft gust of air that greeted her sent a river of goose-bumps rippling over her skin. Her clothes were damp from her own sweat: a common aftereffect of her reincarnation. A groan bubbled past her lips as she stood erect. The pounding headache that pulsed behind her eyes was nothing short of extraordinary. Rory really hated dying.

Nothing good came of the process, but it always supplied never-ending nagging nightmares and a hellish hangover. Before she could even take a step to test out her new legs, Ivy was standing in the doorway. Rory couldn't start to express the proper amount of surprise. She squinted at the vampire and gave an unimpressive wave.

She didn't trust herself to speak yet; it usually took an hour or so to sort herself out to her full functioning speed. Fortunately, there was no need. Ivy was a frenzied, rambling vision in black.

She looked great. Her cheeks were flushed with rosy color. Her eyes were twinkling green stars. It took Rory longer than it should have to piece together the signs of a fresh feed. The dress she wore was a startling change of pace from what Rory had gathered to be her preferred style. Instead of looking like she was about to decapitate someone, she looked like she already had. A clingy, black, knee-length dress covered most of her pale skin. The lace veil that nestled in her neon red hair fell over one of her eyes and the top of her right cheekbone. Had someone died? Or, a more likely scenario: had she killed someone?

"Good, you're up. Sorry, but I had to make an executive decision about your wardrobe. I would have let you go shopping, but we're not at the point in our relationship where a shopping montage is acceptable. Oh, and you were pretty dead, too. You've been out for two days. Didn't think you'd be alive again before the gala of the geraniums." Ivy huffed when Rory didn't respond. "The queen's gala? We were invited the day you scorched my kitchen to hell? It's an Underdwelling ball for the celebration of fall. You need to get ready."

Rory wasn't given the chance to answer even if she could have. Ivy marched over to her (the delicate black heels on her feet didn't change her aggressive stride) and steered her to the closet by her shoulders.

"The queen sent a dress over for you." Rory slid open the door in front of her to see a mass of off-white fluff. She shook her head, but Ivy was already turning away. "Put it on. We leave in two hours."

Rory tried to grab Ivy's wrist, but missed and threw herself off-balance. She steadied herself against the nightstand and coughed out a 'wait' after Ivy. She wouldn't be able to do anything that strenuous until tomorrow. She wasn't feeling even close to her best. But that wasn't the real reason she didn't want to go to the queen's gala. She'd only just been introduced to the Underdwelling as the key to their Surfacing. Rory wasn't completely confident that she was ready for a coming out party. Especially when she couldn't even stand on her own.