Miranda had known pain in her life, but not like this. For days she writhed on Kat’s bathroom floor, her fingers clawing at the tile, her entire body scalded from within. Fever gripped her, washing her with unbearable heat one second and freezing cold the next. She held the pillow to her mouth and screamed when she couldn’t stand it.
Kat pounded on the door more than once, asking if she was okay, but she couldn’t answer. She had locked Kat out—no one should see her like this.
It felt like every bone in her skeleton snapped and knit itself over and over again. Her cells seemed to have turned to acid and were eating their way out of her skin. The worst part was her stomach—her bout with salmonella in college had in no way prepared her for the torturous cramps and nausea. She retched almost constantly for the first day, at first water, then nothing but air; her thirst was so great she stuck her head in the sink and drank from the faucet, then threw it up, and drank again.
It went on past the point when she thought she could endure no more. It went on past when she prayed to die. Every few hours she passed out, only to be driven awake again by a fresh punishment, thousands of knives in her gut or a vise grip around her head.
At one point she was aware that she had bitten her tongue and it was swollen and raw in her mouth, bleeding from two holes. The taste of her own blood made her insides twist so hard she would have wailed, but she had long since lost her voice.
I’m alone . . . I’m dying and I’m alone . . . I can’t do this. It’s too much. It hurts so bad . . .
She lay on her back, sweat pouring from every pore of her body, so worn out she could hardly breathe, and for a moment a strange sort of peace descended over her.
She thought of the night she had been raped, and of the raw power that had taken hold of her. She thought of all the nights before that when she had let her psychic abilities use her. She had been beaten, and violated, and murdered. She’d had everything taken from her by force. Her illusory crown had been stripped away. There was no music to hide in, no Haven to run to, no Prime to show her the way back. There was only Miranda, and one final decision.
She could die here, a sad broken heap on a bathroom floor . . . or . . .
Another stream of thoughts, or rather feelings: the ecstasy that filled her when she performed. The joy of turning music into emotion and sharing it. The pride of getting up one more time when she fell down and picking up her sword. The heat of beloved hands on her skin and a body meeting hers. The possibility . . . the endless possibility. Power, and love, and belonging were all hers, if she could find the will to reach out and take them . . . no . . . to reach in.
Miranda pulled her attention back to her breath, then followed it, as Sophie had shown her, down into the shadow coiled inside her. It was waiting for her to let it finish its work. If she fought it, she would die. If she took its hand . . .
She smiled into the darkness . . . and chose.
“I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what to do.”
“Is it drugs?”
She heard the voices so clearly it took a minute to realize they weren’t in her head.
Voice one: female, mixed race, approximately thirty years of age. Southern drawl evident on vowels. Voice two: male, slightly younger, Caucasian undertone but accent from farther north than Texas.
She opened her eyes and blinked at the unexpected light. At first she thought it must be daytime, but a scent of the air told her otherwise; it was about eight o’clock. The overhead fixture was not switched on. The room was bathed in watery blue and gray shades, and she could see every detail down to the spidery cracks in the grout.
She felt out along her body, curious. No pain. She felt light, buoyant. She lifted her hand and looked at it, amazed at how distinct its edges were, how strong it seemed; she curled it into a fist, admiring the feeling of muscle and tendon sliding over each other. She lowered her hand to her body, running her fingers down the length of one arm, then over her breasts and belly. The sensation was so exquisite that she lay there for several minutes touching herself, every inch alive.
A light knock at the door interrupted her exploration. “Miranda?” the female voice called. “Can you hear me?”
She spoke, and her voice was a wonder: it had the same smooth golden timbre as always, but now there were layers of nuance and meaning to even the simplest of words: “Yes.”
“Honey, Drew’s here. We want to take you to the doctor. Will you let us in?”
She focused on the door, and on the two human figures beyond it. She breathed in, and could smell them both. They both worked with children. One of them had varnish under his fingernails. The other used cocoa butter on her hair. They had had sex recently.
The male smelled lovely, like old books and rosin, yes, but underneath were the mingled scents of sex and masculinity. He was healthy and bright. An occasional meat-eater, active, had smoked pot at some point in the last month.
Her teeth pressed into her lower lip.
Slowly, she turned over onto her stomach, then rose, allowing her body to unfold as gracefully as a deer rising from the brush. She extended a hand and unlocked the bathroom door.
“Thank God,” she heard the woman say. “Mira, you’ve got to . . . holy shit.”
They stared at her, the woman’s mouth open as she lost the sentence, the man’s eyes huge. They were both very attractive; the woman had power, and she knew it, and the man was caring, kind. Both of them were very worried about her.
Why?
She lifted her hands again and ran them down her sides, looking down to see what she was wearing. Sweat-pants and a sweatshirt. It was absurd. Her hair was a tangled mess. What were they staring at?
She tilted her head to one side, watching them watch her.
“Um . . . Miranda . . .” the man said hesitantly, “Are you feeling all right?”
Miranda. Yes, that was her name. And his was Drew; the woman’s was Kat. She knew them. They were her friends. He had tried to kiss her, once.
“May I borrow your comb?” Miranda asked.
Kat stuttered something and gestured back behind her; Miranda turned toward the medicine cabinet, opening the door and taking out a large-toothed comb. When she shut the door, she realized what Kat was motioning at.
The door of the cabinet was mirrored. She could see, behind her, the two people framed in the bathroom doorway.
She couldn’t see herself.
She shrugged inwardly and pulled the comb through her hair, wincing at the tangles. It took several minutes of careful work to get it all under control again. Even after she was finished, they were still staring.
“What’s happened to you?” Kat asked softly. Her voice was quaking.
“I told you,” Miranda said. “I was sick. I’m better now.”
“But . . . Mira . . . you’re so pale . . . you don’t even look human!”