It was a very good thing, Iman thought, that she had asked Beck to drive instead. After all, she could not possibly drive and be in this strange, foreign meadow at the same time.
A moment ago, she and Beck had been at a red light, the radio turned low to static, Beck's hand brushing her thigh. She was thinking, thinking, thinking. About what Hana said and why Julien wasn't picking up his phone and how there was a gruesome squirrel corpse in her glove compartment. By all means, she shouldn't have been so surprised when her stomach began to float within her.
"Beck," she'd said, urgent. "Beck, I'm about to—"
She never finished the sentence.
She could picture him now. Beck, hands gripping the steering wheel as he guided the car onto the shoulder and frantically looked around for her. He had never seen her disappear, after all. There was no preparing for something like that.
I can't worry about Beck right now, Iman told herself. She was lying on the ground, small, yellow needles of grass poking at her arms and the back of her neck. Sun—bright, hot, dazzling—blazoned her face. I have to figure out where the hell I am.
She squinted and lifted a hand to her brow, sitting up. The meadow seemed ceaseless, a yellow-green sea only interrupted by a shack in the far distance and—was that—a person?
Panic seized in her throat. She didn't know where or when she was; the cultural aspects of this time, this place, wherever and whenever this was, was lost on her. She was a woman of color in no man's land, and she was entirely helpless.
This part of time traveling got very old, very fast.
Iman stayed low, as if the grass would hide her. Sweat stuck her curls to her face, the scent of earth and ragweed in her nostrils. She watched the figure, waiting, hesitating—only it didn't move. It was utterly still, slumped over, its head hanging. Almost as if it was...dead.
Iman waged a small war with herself then, but her altruism won over her caution. She got to her feet, wading through the grass, the wind tearing at her hair, her clothes. She grew closer, closer, closer still. She saw the black curls—shorter, but recognizable nonetheless. The tawny skin, gentle jawline. Those slender, long, pianist fingers, littered with burns.
The name felt as though it was choked out of her. "Julien!"
It was Julien, chained to a wooden post in the middle of the field, defenseless in the broad scope of the blazing afternoon sun.
He looked up at her, and though his eyes blazed a fervent crimson, she had never seen so much hope in them before. "Oh, Immy, thank God," he said, his voice shattered, mere pieces of what it normally was. He picked up his head, though it looked like it hurt him. Rattling his chains, he asked, "Think you could help me with these? They're silver, so I can't—"
Iman nodded, waving him to silence. "Shh, don't talk. I've got you."
Iman knelt, fumbling with the chains, trying to ignore the scent of Julien's sizzling flesh as she worked him free. She unknotted them until they were loose enough for Julien to wriggle away; he did so, though it was painfully slow. Iman helped him up, silent, tossing his arm over her shoulder and dragging him towards the shack at the edge of the meadow.
She didn't ask him how he'd gotten there, how long he'd been there, who'd done that to him. She did nothing but hold him up until they reached the shack, where she shouldered the rotting door open and pulled Julien into the safety of the shadows.
She glanced around, checking if the meadow was clear, and pulled the doors shut again.
They were alone. The shack was empty, a dilapidated structure of holed, ancient wood, plentiful dust, and old haystacks. Only a sliver of the sun shot through from the roof, a small area which Julien avoided.
He curled now against the shack's floor, catching his breath. He was in a sleeveless shirt, though the tears along it suggested it had had sleeves not too long ago. The same fate appeared to have befallen his shorts. His legs and arms were black and red, the skin cracking and bleeding. Iman steeled her heart and crawled over to him, lifting his face.
She cursed, letting him go. "Jules."
He turned away from her, ashamed. "I was only out there for two hours."
"So?" Iman said. She was trying very hard not to yell, but she wasn't going to be able to fight it much longer. "Another hour and you would have been burnt to a crisp, Jules. What—what the hell did you do?"
He sounded as though he was speaking around broken glass; both he and Iman winced at every word. "I got..." he swallowed, shaking his head. "I got careless."
"No shit," said Iman. "You can't do this, Julien. You know what you are, and you know how people respond to it most of the time—"
A rustling noise interrupted her. She saw Julien's head perk up, heard a frantic, rodent like squeal, then the quiet shink as fangs sunk into skin.
Iman exhaled and turned around. Julien never liked anyone to watch.
When she turned again, Julien was standing. His face was healed, unscarred, as were his arms and legs. He looked like the Julien she'd seen a few days ago, in the present, only his hair was shorter and his eyes were sadder. A smear of blood painted his mouth and chin red.
Relief filled Iman; her shoulders slumped. "Look. I don't—I don't want to know."
He nodded, walking over to the nearest haystack and hopping on top of it with a certain grace only accessible to the undead. "You're in Nevada," he said matter-of-factly, folding his long legs beneath him. "1963."
Iman blinked. She'd forgotten to ask. "Oh. Thanks."
"How long are you here for?"
She shook her head. She rarely talked to Present Julien about Past Julien. Some things were better left unsaid. "I don't know."
"Hm," Julien said. He tilted his head, mopping the blood remnants from his mouth quite inefficiently. "When did you come from, then?"
"2019."
Julien's eyes widened. "Long trip."
"You have no idea."
For a moment, the two of them were silent. Iman had meant it when she said she didn't want to know what had happened. She already had half a guess, anyway. It was just difficult to talk circles around it like nothing at all happened in the first place. Like this was one of their usual meetings in Julien's San Diego house, an hour or two or four spent figuring out a useful way to pass the time before Iman jetted off to the present again.
Because it was not a usual meeting. It was the least usual meeting of them all, so far.
Julien was tired too, it seemed. "If I told you, Iman," he said then, "that I was ready to die just now?"
Something caught in Iman's throat. She said nothing.
"If I said that," Julien said, quietly, his voice smooth but timorous, "what would you say?"
Iman waited. Half because she wanted him to take it back. Half because she knew he wouldn't, so she had to figure out what indeed she would say.
She folded her arms across her chest; her heart was a jackhammer beneath her hand. She swiveled, staring at Julien. "Why?"
Julien opened his mouth to speak, but Iman cut him off. "I'd say why? Why the hell are you giving up so easy? Why don't you stick around a bit longer, just to see what there is to see? Why don't you live, why don't you fall in love, why don't you breathe, why don't you feel? That is what I would say. I would ask you why."
As she watched, something within Julien broke. She saw it, the way his eyes turned vacant for a moment, as if his soul, his being, had left his body behind. He looked lost. Completely lost. "Clearly it doesn't matter. Clearly I'm still alive in 2019, aren't I? Because you'd be talking to me differently if I were dead."
"Would I?"
"You would. I know you would," said Julien. "You're encouraging me because you've seen where I end up. It'd be different if I were dead."
"In that case," said Iman, frowning at him, "you have no choice but to listen to me."
Julien's gaze was level, unwavering. It bled curiosity, hunger, yearning. "What am I living for?"
"Like hell I know," snapped Iman. She walked over to the haystack, kneeling down in front of it, bringing her eyes to Julien's. "You keep so many secrets, you know. You're a secret yourself. Basis is, you're right. You are still alive. There is something out there for you, Julien. I frankly don't give a shit if you're tired of looking for it. It's still there and as long as it is you'd better not throw it away. Lots of people need you around. I need you around. So please don't—"
Hot tears caught in the back of her throat; she swallowed them down. "Don't leave me yet, okay?"
Julien's eyes, dark, unsettling orbs in the musty dark of the shack, searched her face. She had never felt so far away from him and so close to him at the same time. "Immy," he said. "I'm sorry."
Iman did not say what he wanted her to say: that it was okay, that he didn't need to worry about it, that they didn't have to talk about any of this again if he didn't want to. Because it would come up again, and again, and again. This was what it was to be immortal, wasn't it? To have forever and hate forever.
Forever was a bittersweet word. Julien had taught her that.
A familiar feeling rose in Iman's gut. She touched Julien's knee. "I'm leaving, Jules," she said. "Sorry I can't stay longer. Are you gonna be okay?"
He nodded. "Will you?"
When Iman got to her feet again, the weightless feeling surged. Her head beginning to spin, she said to Julien, "Yeah. I think so. Till next time."
"Yeah," Julien said, grinning ruefully at the ground. "Till next time."
And she was gone.