6 More Fantasy Stories Page 8

  As he gazed at her face in the red-orange glow of the flames, Virgil was filled with a longing to kiss her. Cool wind teased at strands of black hair around her face, stroking them over her nose and mouth.

  She felt so familiar to him, as if he'd known her for years. It was strange, because of all the women he'd met in his life, she was the most mystifying. She was the only woman who had ever managed to surprise him, the only woman who hadn't become a complete open book the moment he'd touched her mind.

  Maybe, he thought, that was what he'd been looking for all along. Not someone who met his every criteria, someone who could withstand the intense scrutiny of a mind reader who could lay bare every secret and flaw.

  Maybe he'd just been looking for someone he couldn't see through all the way.

  "Mm," said Bridget as he drew the kettle from the flames. "I get the mussels, you get the shells."

  "Only if the shells are the meaty part," said Virgil, lifting the lid with a towel to keep from burning his hand. Steam billowed up from the kettle, racing the bonfire flames to the night sky.

  "So, don't you want to know?" said Bridget, holding out a bowl as he ladled up a mussel from the boiling water.

  "That depends," said Virgil. "Know what?"

  "Your fun rating," said Bridget. "The numbers are in."

  Virgil dropped a mussel into her bowl and scooped out another. "What happens if my rating's not so great?"

  "You have to have more fun."

  "And if I do well?"

  "You have to have more fun."

  "Let's hear the results then," he said, depositing mussels in a bowl for himself.

  Bridget smiled. "I don't want you to get complacent," she said, "but your numbers are good."

  "How good?" said Virgil.

  "Through the roof," she said. She cleared her throat then, as if she was uncomfortable. "Actually, I probably shouldn't tell you this, but they're the best ever."

  With that, she reached out and lightly touched his arm. He knew it had been on her mind, knew it was coming, but still he was thrilled when her fingertips came to rest on the sleeve of his jacket.

  "Same for you," he said, closing his hand over hers. "In all categories."

  As the fire crackled and waves slapped at the shore, they gazed into each other's eyes. Virgil's heart beat fast, and he thought about leaning over and kissing her.

  She thought about it, too.

  Then, suddenly, her eyes flashed away from him, focusing somewhere behind him, and she jumped.

  Bridget gasped and jerked away from him, spilling the bowl of mussels in the sand. Eyes wide, a look of terror on her face, she leaped to her feet.

  Instinctively, Virgil spun and looked behind him, hackles rising on the back of his neck. Nothing there but beach and tangled driftwood.

  Realizing she was seeing something he could not, he dove into her mind, rifling the contents for a sign of what was scaring her.

  It wasn't hard to find. The vision burst up at him with explosive force, shooting into him like a punch in the stomach.

  Again, through her eyes, he saw himself...and something else. Bright fangs and black fur, cast orange in the fire's glow. Gleaming claws and ebony eyes, glinting and fierce. Some kind of wolfish horror with lips curled back in a snarl, arms extended, ragged tail switching.

  And it loomed behind him, towered over him, drool dripping from its long snout. Ready to pounce.

  The vision was so alarming, Virgil broke his link with her and turned to look behind him again. But whatever she saw, it wasn't there or he couldn't see it.

  He turned back, and she was already running away, back up the beach toward the access stairs. Virgil followed.

  As he ran, he looked behind him twice more, but the wolf creature remained invisible to his ordinary eyes.

  *****

  After the scare on the beach, she told him to take her home, and he did. On the way, she hardly said a word. He asked her questions about what had happened, but she didn't answer them.

  As he drove, Virgil reached into her mind, rummaging around for some clue to the nature of her vision, but he found nothing. He returned to her memory of the wolf thing, reexamined it from every angle, tugged and prodded and peeled it apart...and it never seemed to him any less than a memory of reality.

  "Goodnight," she said in a hushed voice when he dropped her off at her bungalow.

  Before he could get a word out, she had thrown the door shut and was running up the sidewalk to her front door.

  Later, back in his hotel room, he stared out the window at the thrashing waves and realized that he should let her go. Chalk it up to experience.

  He knew he was better off without someone like her, someone afflicted with hallucinations so real she couldn't separate them from reality...or gifted with vision that revealed an invisible and sometimes terrifying level of existence. Maybe, she was mentally ill, and so deeply and inextricably ill that he could not even sort out the truth of her condition. Maybe, she saw true things that were too beautiful and horrible for anyone to see without eventually descending into insanity.

  Either way, why subject himself to that?

  He had always avoided women with baggage and hang-ups. At the slightest hint of dysfunction or addiction or danger or imperfection, he had always cut himself loose and moved on without looking back.

  So why, with a woman who was clearly, unpredictably unstable, was Virgil looking back?

  He should leave. He had the perfect opportunity now. They had no ties or future arrangements. She had acted crazy and bailed out, giving him every reason to end their association. She had even spared him from having to reject her to her face or even over the phone.

  No one could fault him for walking away. He knew it was the smart thing to do.

  When he got into bed, his mind was made up. No more Bridget. He would pack his bags and fly back to Vegas in the morning, avoiding any possibility of an awkward meeting.

  That was what he planned to do when his head hit the pillow. Six sleepless hours later, the mind reader realized he had changed his mind.

  *****

  "I see what you see," he told her the next morning, standing in the living room of her bungalow.

  Bridget frowned. She didn't look like she had gotten any sleep, either. Her eyes were red from sleeplessness or crying or both.

  "The man in the restaurant," said Virgil. "The mermaids. The creature on the beach. All of it."

  "What?" said Bridget, her frown deepening. "How is that...how can you..."

  Virgil took a deep breath and released it. He had never told anyone his own secret before. "I can see inside your mind. Through your eyes."

  Bridget stared at him, her expression caught between disbelief and amazement. "Oh my God," she said.

  "How long have you seen these things?" said Virgil.

  "All my life," said Bridget. "I see them all the time. Sometimes they tell me things."

  "It must be hard for you," said Virgil.

  Bridget's eyes glistened. "I can't tell you how wonderful it is sometimes," she said. "And sometimes, it's so...so frightening."

  "I see them too, now," said Virgil. "You're not alone."

  A single tear rolled down her cheek, and her lower lip trembled. "You don't want this," she said softly. "I can't ask you to be a part of this."

  "Then don't," said Virgil, stepping toward her, pulling her close. "You don't have to ask."

  "You don't know what you're getting in for," said Bridget.

  "That's the thing about being a mind reader," said Virgil. "I do."

  And as he kissed her, he slipped back into her mind, and he saw through her eyes again. He saw angels in a shower of glittering gold, hovering all around them, and cloud white doves and streams of light all the colors of the rainbow. He saw himself, transformed, a shimmering figure of pure white brilliance.

  And he saw her, this time through his own two eyes, delicate and radiant, unknowable and known, beaming with a light that was at least th
e equal of his own.

  *****

  The Return of Alice

  Chapter One: The Great Escape

  She stared into the mirror.

  For the past thirty years, the thing had haunted her. It was hidden away in her attic, up the creaky stairs, through the heavy trap door, across the junky piles of clothing and packing crates. But still, it lingered in her thoughts, always burning in the back of her mind. Maybe it would have been better to have left it downstairs above the mantle. In the half-lit mustiness of the attic, it seemed all the more mysterious; and when she could not see it, she thought of it all the more.

  Now, the only light in the attic was a single candle, burning to a nub on a chest behind her. She saw its dim point get lower and dimmer as she watched; she put out a hand to touch the reflection, and it disappeared.

  She felt a thrill when she touched the mirror, a shiver of remembrance that trickled up her arm and down her spine and made her catch her breath. Slowly, she moved her hand across the glass, across her own reflection. Her fingers were light on the pane, pink-nailed tips brushing along it. As she caressed the reflection, a tear beaded in her eye and softly ran down her cheek.

  She reached up and traced the tear's image, following it down the mirror with her finger. Another tear followed, then one from the other eye.

  As she cried, she took her hand from the mirror and slowly touched her own face. Her eyes were still fixed on the reflection as she wiped away a tear, shaking a little. She moved slowly and stiffly, as if hypnotized, transfixed by her own image.

  Then, her voice weak and catching, she spoke. "Oh rabbit, where are you? Where are you?"

  There was no answer. She began to sob, and plunged her face into her hands. It was still the same, though she half expected it would not be; she half expected it would not be, though every day it was.

  A few drops of rain rapped the roof above her, and through her sobs, she heard the far-off rumble of thunder. It was night, and the attic was growing darker as the tiny candle dimmed.

  Still choking with sobs, the woman stared through her fingers at the mirror. She stared at her reflection, flickering in the shadows; her long blonde hair was tangled and limp, her face and eyes were red behind her hands. Her housedress was rumpled, the white blouse folded like paper around her heaving chest. She was a mess, and the mirror, the cause of it all, reminded her.

  Suddenly, she whirled away from the mirror and stumbled across the attic. She tripped over an old rocking horse, caught herself on a lampstand; it rattled like coat-hangers when she rell against it.

  Quickly, she pushed away, and ran through the old trap door, slamming it shut behind her. She was gone down the steps as dust flew up around the door.

  When Alice had gone, the candle winked out, and the mirror went dark.

  *****

  The next morning, it was still raining outside. Alice was making breakfast for the family, moving about the kitchen in her housedress and apron. On top of the coal-stove, she was frying a pan of sausages; a kettle of tea steamed behind them, and another pan full of scrambled eggs. Alice watched them all, fixing a plate of bread-and-butter as she did.

  Alice had a splitting headache that morning. She supposed it was from the rain. Her eyes were bloodshot and each one had a thin dark ring along the bottom. She supposed that was from crying.

  She certainly looked no better than she had the night before. If anything, her hair was limper and more tangled, and her housedress was more wrinkled than before. Her face was no longer flushed, however; it was pale, like a sheet.

  Through the doorway, Alice heard her mother-in-law shuffling toward the kitchen. She would be the first one to breakfast, as usual, except for Alice, of course.

  It was the same every morning in her husband's house. Every day, it was the very same schedule: Alice up at five, dress and make breakfast; Queenie, mother-in-law, up at six-thirty, hobbling downstairs to the table in her dressing-gown; Tom up minutes later, after Queenie shakes him; Tom to breakfast, Alice fixing a lunch of biscuits and ham; Tom taking lunch-sack, out the door to the print shop. It never changed, not once, like the mirror.

  "Hmmph," snorted Queenie, trundling through the doorway. "I hope his eggs are right, you know." She looked like a bulldog, a pug with flabby jowls and a flat nose and face. Her eyes drooped at the corners, and were dim and uninterested. She was short and lumpy, filling the dressing-gown like a sack of potatoes.

  "They're fine, Mother." Alice hated calling her mother, almost as much as she hated fixing her eggs. Her mother was dead, and always would be; this fat dog was a lie, one that she had to live with every day of her life.

  "Hmmph," snuffled Queenie, rolling into her chair at the table. "They better well be. Remember, I've seen some of the gristle you feed my boy. Your mum certainly wasn't no cook, I can tell you that, you know."

  Alice spun around, jabbing the butter knife in the air. "You just keep my mum out of it, you hear? It isn't right togo spittin' on someone's grave like that. Especially my mother's."

  Queenie sniffed loudly, turning her flat nose away from Alice. "Well, aren't we huffy?"

  "You just be quiet," snarled Alice in a low voice. "You just...just sit there and I'll give you your eggs."

  "Tommy first, don't forget." Queenie glanced down at Tom's plate, then looked away at a cupboard.

  Alice said nothing. She grabbed a potholder and took the pan of eggs from the stove. She walked to the table and split the eggs between Queenie's plate and Tom's, leaving none for herself; she wasn't very hungry this morning.

  Queenie said nothing. She waited until Alice had filled her plate, then picked up a fork and poked at the eggs. She leaned close to the plate, inspecting her food, then glared at Alice and snorted.

  Alice walked back to the stove, put down the empty pan and picked up the one with sausage. As she divided the sausages between Queenie and Tom, she heard Tom's footsteps in the hallway.

  It only took him two strides to reach the kitchen from the stairway; his long legs carried him quickly, making it hard for Alice to keep up when they were walking together. Tom was a tall, slender man, but not skinny or awkward. In fact, he was fairly handsome; he had just a hint of muscles, and his shoulders were firm and straight. His face was thin, with deep eyes and prominent cheekbones that made him look like a hawk. He had thin brown hair.

  "Morning, Mother," he said as he walked through the doorway. He sat down at the table and started eating right away.

  "Morning, Tom," said Alice, glancing over from the basin where she was washing a pan.

  Tom nodded and glanced back quickly, and kept eating. He never really paid much attention to Alice, especially when he was eating, and he always seemed to be eating. For a thin man, Alice thought he ate an incredible amount of food.

  Tom worked at a print shop in the city, and had since they were married. He never made much money, but the job was steady and he had been at it for fifteen years. This morning, he was dressed in his ink-stained apron, ready for work as usual.

  As Alice scrubbed her pans, she heard the old woman slap her hand on the table. "My," said Queenie, squinting and nuzzling the air. "It seems a bit drafty here, wouldn't you say, Tom?"

  "Oh, I don't think so," muttered Tom between mouthfuls of eggs and sausage. "Bring some of that bread over here, won't you?" He motioned at the plate of bread-and-butter, which Alice had forgotten to put on the table. Alice brought it to him, and he took a slice off the top; she set the rest down on the tablecloth.

  "Oh, yes," continued Queenie, meanwhile. "It's chilly here, you know. Is the back door closed?"

  "Yes, it is," said Alice.

  "Well, it's coming from somewhere. Maybe a crack in the wall. What do you say, Tom?"

  "I'm not chilly," he said through his food.

  "Hmm, funny. I know I feel something here. Maybe it's this spot. It always does seem cool over here in the morning. Alice always fills my plate in this very spot, though."

  "Mother," said Tom. "Would
you like to trade seats?"

  "Yes, Tommy, please. It would do my health a world of good, I'm sure. Here, just move your plate to the next spot, and I'll move mine to yours." The old woman rolled out of her chair, picking up her plate as Tom got up and moved around the table. She sank into her new place, and sniffed around for a moment.

  "Mmm, not much better, but it'll do, I suppose. I don't think Alice stoked up the fire quite enough, you know. Now that I think of it, it seems chilly in this kitchen every morning. I just don't know..."

  Queenie continued to ramble on, in her grating nasal voice. Tom continued to eat away, gulping another slice of bread-and-butter. Alice fixed their tea, and gave it to them.

  She thought of Wonderland.

  *****

  The rest of the day was the same as the rest of every other day. Alice cleaned the breakfast dishes; she swept and dusted, and did the wash; she shovelled coal into the oven and kept the fire going; she made supper and set the table. Queenie just lolled about the house in her dressing-gown, reading the news, reading a magazine, eating, sleeping. She watched Alice from the sagging corners of her eyes, always making sure everything was done to her liking; she told Alice she missed a spot while dusting, or had moved a mantle-piece out of place, but she never lifted a hand to help her.

  Tom came home around seven, and ate dinner with Queenie; Alice still wasn't hungry. He read a paper in the drawing room while Alice cleaned the dishes; then, he read some of his Bible and headed upstairs for bed. Queenie fell asleep in her rocker.

  When everyone was asleep, and all her chores were done, Alice went upstairs and put on her nightgown. She headed for the bedroom, then changed her mind. With a lit candle in one hand, she walked to the end of the hall and went back up to the attic.