Cian
It felt like it took hours of reassuring to get Vinny to let me go. Even after we somehow made it back to the house, despite the fact that Vinny took a couple turns that were too sharp for comfort, he insisted on gripping my arm and helping me up the stairs. I had to snap at him to make him release me. My predicament was already bad enough; Vinny's parent-like hovering was just making things worse.
Besides, if I let him carry me, if I let him worry over me, that would be accepting the fact that something was wrong. And nothing was wrong. I'd just sleepwalked; I'd used to do that when I'd been little, anyway. People sleepwalked all the time.
As I climbed up the stairs, I glanced back over my shoulder. Vinny was watching me, his gaze wary, from the bottom of the staircase. There was something strange in my little brother's eyes, something gnarled and twisted and wrong, like there was something he was begging to say.
Vinny remained silent, however, and I just sighed and staggered into my bedroom. I pulled the door all the way shut, turned to go to my bed, and halted in place.
My room had never been neat, certainly, but it had never been this messy. I didn't remember leaving it like this: the floor littered with papers and pencils and puddles of something dark and ink-like, my window shattered, my mattress thrown off the bed frame.
I closed my eyes.
Perhaps it was a little worse than sleepwalking.
I tried my best at tidying the space. I redid my bed, swept the jagged glass shards into a corner for later disposal, gathered up all the looseleaf paper the floor had been strewn with. Then I knelt, examining the puddles of dark liquid. It was thick, sticky as burnt sugar, bitter-smelling as spoiled milk. My gut wrenched with recognition; it was the same fluid I'd coughed up when that demon had tainted my wings. It was likely I'd thrown it up, today, too, and I just didn't remember.
I ran my tongue over my lips; I could almost taste it.
I let out a groan, throwing myself on my bed. There was no way. When the Order had taken my wings, they'd gotten rid of the demon's infection. Besides, even if they hadn't, why would it take so long to resurface? There was no way. I was fine. I was just fine.
I rolled to my side, forcing my eyes shut, hoping sleep would allay some of the worry. It didn't matter how much I told myself I was fine, because I still had the awful feeling that I was not. I hated bad feelings, how they gnawed and gnawed at you, only twisting you further in their grip with the more you struggled.
All I needed was a few minutes, really, of oblivion. Just to center myself again—
"Cian?"
I jolted, then stopped moving altogether. It wasn't Vinny's voice, wasn't my mother's voice. It was hers. It could only be hers.
Slowly, I rolled back over. She stood there beside the bed, clad in the same shorts, tank top, and flannel she'd been wearing the day Nick had shot her, her black curls tumbling towards her shoulders. Her skin was the same warm chestnut I'd always loved, a splatter of freckles across her nose.
It was Lucie—my Lucie.
Most of her was the same, yet she seemed faded, the edges between her and her surroundings a bit fuzzy. I stared at her for a moment, then laughed bitterly. "This demon stuff is cruel. I could have hallucinated anyone, but no, I see you. I just had to see you."
Lucie's eyebrows drew in, but it was an evanescent movement. Her silence was all the proof that I needed—she wasn't here. She was my hallucination, an illusion my own sick brain had created to torture me.
Lucie—rather, the illusion of her—leaned her weight against my dresser, giving me an admiring look. It was the same one she'd always given me when she'd been awake: a playful quirk of her eyebrow, a slight lift to her full lips. "Cian," she said again. "You don't look well. Is everything okay?"
I hesitated. I couldn't believe I was doing this. "Clearly not."
"And your eye, it's—"
"Gone."
Lucie's brown eyes widened in surprise, her grip on the dresser going a bit tight. "Gone?"
I chuckled, realizing I'd made the wrong word choice. I reached up, tearing the eyepatch loose. Lucie frowned, but otherwise didn't have much of a reaction. "Well, fine, it's not gone, but it's certainly blind. Thanks to Nick."
Lucie's gaze fell to the floor; she drew herself up atop the dresser, folding her legs. I watched, wondering how I could be half-sightless, yet still manage to see the very images that tortured me the most. It could have been anyone. I could have seen anyone. But it had to be Lucie, the person my heart ached for the most. "I'm sorry, Cian—you know that? I'm sorry that I couldn't protect you."
"No," I grunted. It'd been everything I was afraid she'd say. "No, muffin, stop. Stop."
"It's true, though. That's all I wanted to do, was protect you, and look at where that's gotten us now."
"Stop, Lucie," I warned. I had started to cower. My head was pounding, my trembling hands reaching up to my temples, as if I could press out the pain somehow. "Stop acting like it's your fault, like I'm not the one who ruined you. I'm not the victim here; I'm never the victim. Just stop, Lulu. Just...go."
I glimpsed her long enough to see the fall in her expression, like she hadn't been expecting me to say that. "Go?"
"Get out of my head, Lucie. Get out! Get out. I can't take it anymore; I can't—" I cut off, letting out a wail. The aching in my head had grown into a throbbing, and I could feel the beat of it, like a hammer working at the inside of my skull. Everything was on fire. There were flames in my skin and smoke in my lungs.
To my surprise, I heard a long sigh from Lucie's direction. "If you're dying again," she said, "I'm actually going to kill you."
"Muffin," I grumbled, "you have to go. You have to get out of my head—please—just turn it off, turn it all off..."
I squinted my eyes shut. I didn't know how much more of this I could take. "Stop," I hissed. "Stop!"
Just as soon as it had surfaced, the pain ebbed again, and I managed to open my eyes. The mirage of Lucie was gone, and it was just a dresser again. I was more than grateful.
With a moan, I staggered to my feet. Caprice's words were in my head. I had to talk to someone, had to tell someone, had to do something before I couldn't anymore. I was done lying to myself, lying to everyone, about this. I'd realized now, if not before, that this was much too grave a situation to be ignored.
I crossed the hall to Vinny's bedroom, knocking softly. My heartbeat was calm again, the hammer within my head finally stilled. "Vince? Hey, can I talk to you..."
I trailed off as the door fell open. The room was empty, his desk and closet neat, trophies organized immaculately. The only evidence he'd ever been there at all was the slight wrinkle in his comforter, a fossil of where he'd once sat.
I wasn't sure why, but discomfort began to rise within me. It was the seed of a bad feeling, just germinated.
He was older now, I thought. He could take care of himself. Just like I didn't need him hovering over me, he didn't need me hovering over him.
Regardless, with our father gone and our mother not far from the same, all we really had was each other. If he'd gone anywhere, he would have checked with me, wouldn't he? He wouldn't have wanted me to worry.
I checked the dock, where I'd calmed his panic attack a few nights before. He wasn't there, either. I went to Mom's room, which was locked most of the time nowadays, and held my fist over the wood. I almost knocked, but dropped my hand. I was afraid of the condition I'd find her in; lately, we hadn't talked much at all. The most I saw of her was when she popped into the kitchen to get a bottle of wine. Shortly after, however, she'd disappear behind a shut door again.
She wouldn't know where Vinny was anyway. It's not like she bothered to pay any attention.
My final stop was the garage; I shouldered open the door, entering a gray expanse of empty space. There were dripping oil paints, Dad's old tools, even a spare tire, but the SUV was gone.
The bad feeling within me had grown, anxiety blooming within me like a poisonous flower.
I guess I knew now that I wasn't the only one keeping secrets.