Bolting through the crowd, pushing, screaming, shoving, shouting for everyone to get out of my way. Vaguely aware of Vane calling after me—his fingers grasping, pulling me close to his chest, urging me to stop, to turn, to not be afraid.
My body sags in relief as I lift my face to meet his. Wondering how I’ll ever explain my sudden bout of craziness now that everything’s returned to normal again, only to gaze past his shoulder and find the crows replaced with something much worse—thousands of bloodied, severed heads hanging on spikes that fill up the square.
Their gruesome mouths yawning into a terrible chorus that calls out my name—urging me to listen—to heed their warning—before it’s too late.
One voice in particular rising above all the rest, its grisly battered face bearing an eerie resemblance to one in a crumpled old photo I know all too well.
Two
The light zooms toward me, bright and unexpected—prompting me to squint, to cover my face with my hands, only to find that I can’t raise my arm—and when I struggle to sit, I fall back again.
What the—?
My limbs lie useless, stretched out to either side, and after lifting my head, trying to get a grip on my predicament, that’s when I discover that someone’s restrained me by tying me up.
“She awakens!” a female voice shouts, bearing an accent so thick I can’t tell if her tone is one of fear or relief. “Miss Jennika—please, to come quickly! It is your daughter, Daire. She is up!”
Jennika! So my mom’s in on this?
I roll my head to the side, taking in blue color-washed walls, terra-cotta tiled floors, and the ornately painted octagonal table that serves as a convenient drop spot for my banged-up tin of Rosebud Salve, my silver iPod and earbuds, and the water-warped paperback I’ve been lugging around. Watching as an old woman wearing the traditional long, black, hooded djellaba rushes from the room that’s served as my home for over a month, returning with a frantic Jennika who drops down beside me, and brings her cool palm to my brow. Her familiar green eyes, nearly exact replicas of mine, appearing lost, set adrift, among her shock of bleached platinum hair and pale worried face.
“Oh, Daire! Daire—you okay? I’ve been so worried about you! Are you in pain? Are you thirsty? Is there anything I can get you—anything I can do? Just tell me, and it’s yours!” She veers closer, peers at me anxiously, as her hands fret at the pillows just under my head.
My lips are so cracked, throat so sore, tongue so parched, when I open my mouth to speak, direct the words at her, it comes out sounding garbled and senseless even to me.
“Take your time,” Jennika coos, patting my shoulder and indulging me with an encouraging look. “You’ve been through a lot. There’s no need to rush it. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll stay for as long as it takes for you to feel better.”
I swallow hard. Try my best to drum up some saliva to speed things along, but my supply is so depleted, my second attempt isn’t much better.
“Untie me,” I croak, yanking hard against my restraints, hoping the action will convey what words can’t.
But if Jennika understood, and I’m pretty sure that she did, she chooses to ignore it and reaches for a bottle of water instead.
“Here, drink this.” She shoves a long red straw into the bottle and wedges it deep between my lips. “You’ve been asleep for so long—you must be dehydrated by now.”
Despite my mounting frustration, despite wanting to turn away, deny myself the drink until she unties me, I can’t help but guzzle it greedily. My mouth locked around the straw, my cheeks sucked in as far as they’ll go, overcome with relief when the cool, welcome liquid washes over my tongue and soothes my dry, scratchy throat.
The moment it’s drained, I nudge it away, my gaze narrowed on hers when I say, “Jennika, what the hell are you doing to me? Seriously!” My arms and legs flop crazily as I try in vain to break free.
Watching in frustration when she turns, abandons me for the other side of the room where she takes her sweet time consulting with the old Moroccan woman, murmuring something I can’t quite make out, then listening intently when the woman shakes her head and murmurs something back.
Finally returning to me, she takes great care to avoid my gaze when she says, “I’m sorry, Daire. I really, truly am, but I’m not allowed to do that.” She runs a nervous hand over the front of her black tank top—correction, my black tank top—and I don’t remember telling her she could wear it. “I’ve been given strict orders not to untie you, no matter how much you plead.”
“What?” I shake my head—sure I misunderstood. “By who? Who instructed you to bind me like this? Her?” I nod toward the old woman. With her plain black robes and matching headscarf that covers all of her hair and most of her face, she looks just like every other woman I’ve ever passed in the souk. She hardly looks official enough to lay down the law. “Seriously, Jennika, since when do you follow orders outside of work? Is this some kind of joke? ’Cause if so, I’m telling you right now, it’s not funny—not funny at all!”
Jennika frowns, fidgets with the silver etched ring she wears on her thumb—the one I gave her last Mother’s Day on location in Peru. “Do you have any idea how you got here?” she asks, the mattress shifting when she perches beside me. “Do you remember anything?” Her long, silk skirt swishing as she crosses her legs and her gaze pleads with mine.
I close my eyes and sigh, pretending to lose all my fight as I force my body to settle into the cocoon of pillows she’s placed all around me. I have no idea what she’s talking about—no idea what’s going on—how I ended up being held prisoner in my own hotel room, by my own mom. All I know is that I want it to stop. I want her to untie me. I want my freedom back. And I want it now.
“I have to use the bathroom.” I pop one eye open and sneak a quick peek, confident she’d never deny me such a simple courtesy. “You think you can untie me for that? Or would you prefer I go right here in this bed?” I open the other eye, shoot her a challenging look, only to watch her bite down on her lip, take a quick glance at the woman standing guard in the corner, then shake her head firmly, refusing to oblige me.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. You can either hold it or use the bed
pan,” she says, and I can hardly believe my own ears. “I’m not allowed to untie you until the doctor returns. But not to worry—it shouldn’t be much longer.” She nods toward the cruel-eyed sentinel in the corner. “Fatima called him just after you woke. He’s on his way.”
“Doctor? What the—?” I try to sit up, it’s a reflex, I can’t help it—but just like the last time, I slam back again.
So frustrated, so completely over this insane situation I find myself in, I’m gearing up to do something drastic, scream—cry—demand she untie me or else—when the memory ignites, and fragmented pieces spark in my mind.