Ink Exchange

Chapter 21

Half afraid last night had been a dream, Leslie looked out the window. He's still here. Niall was doing some sort of stretching in the yard. Either he'd been awake for a while and was bored or he was just going about his routine. He'd shed his shirt, and in the light of day the spiderweb of scars that covered his torso was difficult to look at. Thin white lines crisscrossed thicker, uneven raised marks, as if something had clawed his skin. Seeing the full extent of it made her want to cry for him. How is he even alive? He was, though. He was a survivor, and it made him all the more beautiful.

With as little noise as she could, Leslie opened the door.

“Hey.”

He paused in midstretch, standing so still that he seemed frozen, as if he were carved of some rare dark stone. Only his voice proved that he was a living being. "Shall I take you to the school?"

"No." She shook her head as she walked toward him. Until then she hadn't decided, but looking at him— knowing that whatever happened next would mean they'd be changed from what they were in that moment—she knew that wasting the day was foolish. Spending the day at Bishop O.C. … it simply didn't make sense to her.

"What are you doing today?" she asked when she was standing beside him. Without conscious thought, she lifted her hand, letting her fingertips graze the scars on his chest, like following a map of chaos, lines bisecting lines, furrows branching into ridges and ripples.

He hadn't moved yet, staying as still as when he'd seen her walking toward him. "Taking a long swim in the cold river?

She stepped slightly closer. "No."

He swallowed. "If I keep suggesting things, will you keep saying no?"

"Maybe." She smiled, feeling brave, confident with him in a way she hadn't felt with a guy in longer than she wanted to consider. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes. No. Maybe." He gave her a shaky smile. "I'd almost forgotten how much fun this dance was, the wanting without having."

"Is it okay if I lead?" She actually blushed when she said it. She was far from innocent, but he made her feel like this mattered, like they mattered.

"I'm rather liking it." He cleared his throat. "Not that pursuing you—"

"Shh."

"Okay." He watched her curiously. He still hadn't moved, feet and hands in precisely the same position as when she'd approached. It was odd.

"Did you go to military school or something?" she asked before she could stop herself. What a dumb question!

But he wasn't laughing at her or acting like she ruined the moment. He answered seriously, "Not like you're thinking, but I've had to learn a number of things because Keenan's father needed me to do so. Training … It's good to know how to protect yourself and those you care for."

"Oh."

"I can teach you how to defend yourself some. Not" — he held her gaze—"that it will always keep you safe. There are times when no amount of training will stop what others would do."

"So why …" She let the question drift away.

"Because it helps me sleep at night, because it helps me focus, because sometimes I like knowing that maybe if I were in danger again it would help." He kissed her forehead. "And sometimes because it gives me hope that it'll make me strong enough to be loved and protect the one I would try to love."

"Oh." She was at a loss once more.

He stepped back. "But you were going to lead this dance, so I'll work on following … after I ask if we could pause at the loft so I might bathe."

And just like that he eased her fears and brought the tension back to that comfortable zinging feeling they'd shared before he started talking about violence and love.

An hour later, Leslie walked through Huntsdale with Niall—sure that once she stepped away from him, the near illusory connection they had would end. It was so different from their walk the night before, when they'd stopped to kiss in alcoves and dark doorways.

Eventually he gestured at a tall old building in front of them. "We're here."

They stood at the edge of a small park that felt forbidden, as if the air before her had taken form and made a barricade around the greenery. Trees of all sorts bloomed in a riot of contrasting colors and scents; the grass, though, was trampled flat, browned as though by a fair or concert. The park was clean, too; there was no litter or debris at all. It was also empty of people: not even a vagrant lay on any of the odd wooden benches that were scattered throughout the park. Old stone sculptures glistened like they belonged in a museum, and the water in a fountain rose and fell as if a song controlled its flow. Leslie stared at it, the curiously enticing park, wondering how something so beautiful could be here and unused.

"Can we go there?"

"The park?" Niall looked from her face to the park, where she'd been staring. "I suppose."

"It's not private?" She watched as the flow of water shimmered like a girl undulating in some dance that she should remember, that her bones once knew.

There is a girl. The woman danced, hands lifted over her head, face tilted upward like she was speaking to the sun or moon. Leslie stepped closer, leaning into the weighty air that seemed to prevent her passing, to stop her from reaching the fountain. Without looking for traffic or for any conscious reason why, Leslie went toward the park. She paused, caught between longing and fear and not sure she truly felt either one.

"Leslie? Are you with me?" Niall took her hand, stopping her from entering the park.

She blinked. The image of the dancing girl vanished. The statues looked dim, and there weren't nearly as many as she'd thought. Nor were the trees all blooming: there weren't even as many trees as she'd thought. Instead, there were people she somehow hadn't seen: girls, many of whom seemed to be watching her and Niall, wandered around the park in small groups, giggling and talking to the guys who stood where she had thought there were only trees.

"Nothing makes sense, Niall." Leslie felt the edge of panic push against her, but it was less than real—more a murmur of an emotion that rose and faded before it found form. "I feel like … I don't know what I feel lately. I don't get scared, can't stay angry. And when I feel it, it's like it's not mine. I see things that aren't right—people with thorns on their faces, tattoos that move, horns. I keep seeing things that aren't real; I should be afraid. Instead I look away. Something's wrong with me."

He didn't offer her empty promises that it would be okay or that she was imagining it; instead he looked pained, leading her to believe that he knew something more than she did.

Which should make me angry.

She tried to summon it up, but her growing emotional instability had become so pronounced that it was like being a visitor in her own body. Calmly, as if the question didn't matter, she asked, "Do you know what's wrong with me?"

"No. Not really." He paused. "I know someone awful is interested in you."

"That should scare me." She nodded, still calm, still not frightened. He was, though.

"You taste afraid, jealous, and" — she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring some strange thread of emotion that she could almost roll on her tongue—"sad."

She opened her eyes. "Why do I know that, Niall?" Confusion filled him then; she tasted that too. If his emotions were true, he didn't know any more than she did about her new ability.

“You can—“

"Taste your feelings." She watched him, felt him try to be still, like his emotions were being sorted into boxes she couldn't open. Glimmers of tastes—chicory and honey, salt and cinnamon, mint and thyme—drifted by like shadows.

"That's an odd choice of words." He waited, not quite a question, but close enough.

So she told him more of the things she'd been feeling. "There are bursts and absences. There are so many things I feel and see that I can't explain. It should frighten me. It should've made me talk to someone. But I haven't been able to … until now."

"Do you know when it started?" He was worried. Her tongue was heavy under a lingering lemony flavor, and she knew that worry was the feeling that went with that flavor.

"I'm not sure, not really. …" She tried to focus. There was a tumble of words—the restaurant, the tattoo, the Rath, the museum, when, why—but when she tried to speak, all the words were gone.

"Irial," Niall said.

His briny anger and cinnamon jealousy surged back until her throat burned with it. She gasped, nearly choking. But as she thought of Irial, everything felt better. She felt calm again. The tastes faded from her tongue.

Niall hurried her back across the street and into the old building. "We'll still spend the day together. He won't come here. Tonight we'll talk to Aislinn and Keenan. After that you'll be safe. Can we do that?"

His worry stretched inside her, filling her up, and then it slithered away as if it had found a tunnel to escape her. In its place she felt calmness. Her body felt as languid as when she was in Rabbit's chair. Talking about this isn't necessary. She shrugged. "We didn't have a plan yet anyhow, right? Hang out, work, see Rabbit, then more hanging out? Sure."

"Just a few hours, then, and it'll all be fine." He took her hand and started up a spiraling stone staircase.

"No elevators?" She looked around. The outside had been rather nondescript, worn down like most things in Huntsdale, but the inside of the building was beautiful. As at the Rath, obsidian, marble, and wood seemed to replace what would usually be metal.

"No steel allowed in here," he said distractedly.

She followed him until he stopped at a door that was too beautiful to be exposed to casual passersby. Stones—not cut jewels, but raw stones—were embedded in the wood to create a mosaic. She reached out, hand hovering in the air in front of the door. "It's gorgeous."

Niall opened the mosaic door. The inside was no less lovely. Tall, leafy plants dominated the room. Innumerable birds swooped through the air, nested in nooks in tall columns that supported vine-covered ceilings.

"Be welcome in our home, Leslie," he said.

The words felt strangely formal, setting off warnings that this was not the right place for her, that running would be wise. But Leslie could still feel Niall's emotions—he was happy, honored—and in the middle of it all was a thin cord of genuine love for her. So she stepped farther into the room, breathing the summer-sweet scent of flowers that bloomed somewhere in the loft.

"Make yourself at home while I bathe." Niall motioned to an overstuffed chair. "Then I'll make us breakfast. We'll stay here. We'll figure it out."

She thought about answering, but he seemed to be talking to himself more than to her. She settled in the cozy chair, watching the birds dance through the air over their heads. With Niall or with Irial, that's where I should be. She wasn't sure why, but it was clear to her then. Every day her feelings had become further skewed from normal, and other people's emotions had been growing identifiable. She heard the excuses she'd been using to explain the changes away—and knew they were lies and self-deceits. She could see it all with a peculiar clarity. Something, the same source as the changes, was preventing her from thinking too much about the reasons why she was changing; it was somehow forbidden. But why worry? Whatever was changing made her feel good, better than she had in a very long time. So she closed her eyes and enjoyed the languor that had filled her during her conversation with Niall.