Dreams for the Dead (6 page)

F
our

D
awn
woke and reached for her glasses on the nightstand. The digital clock by the bed said it was seven a.m.

Tristan was already awake, if he’d ever gone to sleep. Dawn remembered the click of the lock last night and opening her eyes to see him briefly backlit by the sickly green luminescence pouring in from the open door. Then the door shut and his shadowed form silently approached her. With gentle fingers he’d undone the knots. He’d massaged her aching wrists lightly for a moment, and then he’d settled on the other bed without a word. She’d rolled onto her side, taken off her glasses, and watched his blurred shadow until she fell asleep.

From where she lay now she could see him standing shirtless in front of the bathroom sink, his back to her. Her eyes slid over the length of his smooth, long muscles. His shoulders and torso were broad but he was lean, bony in some places. His pale skin looked cool and softly solid. She felt the urge to touch it.

He turned and she sat up, quickly averting her eyes. “Are you hungry?” His words were sharp, as if he were angry with himself for bothering to ask.

“Yes.”

“We’ll get breakfast. And then we’ll leave.”

“Are we going back home?” she asked.

“No. Not yet. And you …” He looked at her, his eyes almost rueful. “You’re never going back home. It’s better not to hope.”

She showered quickly, feeling bleak. They checked out and then walked down to a diner, where they took a table by the window. It was still drizzling. Dawn asked for French toast and they both ordered coffee. She studied Tristan across the table. Her mouth felt dry whenever she thought of his hands on her wrists, his body leaning over her in the dark.

Settling back, Dawn rubbed her eyes and took a sip of her coffee. She glanced out the window. She thought she was beginning to feel safe for real, and not just because she’d successfully removed herself from her emotions. Tristan didn’t seem inclined to hurt her, despite his threats. Maybe there was even something secretly vulnerable in him. Something that she alone could reach, and heal.

Or so she imagined.

And thinking that way was dangerous.

When she’d finished eating they walked outside. The clouds had fallen away to reveal a clean, brilliant sky. The pavement was still wet and the air smelled of rain.

Dawn noticed a thrift store behind the diner just as Tristan urged her toward it. “I need music,” he said irritably, and she had to agree. The radio signal had been in and out, and the stations had gotten progre
ssively worse the further they drove.

The store was filled with vintage clothing Leila would have loved. There was also milk glass and Bakelite, which Dawn loved. She couldn’t stop to look at the things that interested her since Tri
stan was dragging her past it all. She needed a book.

Tristan found a display with CDs, tapes, and records. Dawn’s eyes grazed past them in disinte
rest. She’d been born too late to feel nostalgic about records, and she owned more music files on her laptop than actual CDs.

“This is crap,” he muttered after a second. “I guess this one’ll do for now.”

Dawn glanced at the CD in his hands. Talking Heads, which she’d never heard of. “Does your car even have a CD player?” she said, allowing a touch of snark to creep into her voice.

“Yes. I installed it myself. After I removed the eight-track.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, good for you,” Dawn said, flustered. “I want to get a book. I mean, if you’re going to leave me tied up in motel rooms all the time, I could use some diversion.”

He shrugged. “Fine. Make it fast.”

She wanted to tell him book shopping was usually anything but fast, but she refrained and turned her attention to a tall shelf crammed with paperbacks and old clothbound books. Although normally she would have at least made an attempt at considering each individual one, today the titles swam without meaning before her eyes. Aware of Tristan hovering behind her, she quickly grabbed a couple at random and hoped they were interesting enough to distract her from this fucked up road trip.

Back in the car, Dawn resigned herself to seemingly aimless miles, only now there was weird old music to fill the silence.

“Why didn’t you scream?” he asked.

“What?”

“I tied you up, but I didn’t gag you. You could have screamed for help.”

Dawn felt horrified at herself all of a sudden. Truthfully, she didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her to scream, except that he’d told her not to. Even at twenty-three, was she still so used to doing what she was told? Obeying her pa
rents, obeying Roy, even obeying Zach on occasion. It wasn’t much of a stretch for her to obey the guy who’d kidnapped her.

“I fell asleep,” she muttered. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t much of an excuse. Any normal person would have shouted till they were hoarse and banged the headboard against the wall until help a
rrived.

What the hell is happening
, she wondered. Her mental voice sounded hysterical. Tristan hadn’t hurt her yet, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. Nobody knew he’d taken her or that they were bound for some unknown destination. He was probably going to bury her in an unmarked desert grave. God, she should have screamed.

She thought suddenly of Zach, of his sun-warmed muscles and hair thick with the wax he used to style it. He was a tough guy, uncomplicated, and she’d always known where she stood with him. A pang of missing him took her by surprise and she had to blink away the unexpected sting of tears. He was a sexist asshole to have said what he did about Leila, but at least he wasn’t a psychopathic ki
dnapping asshole.

The road whirred beneath the tires as they passed miles and miles of monotonous landscape, civ
ilization nowhere in sight. Tristan pulled over at one point and got out of the car. He kicked the front tire a few times. He put his hands in his hair and shouted. He put them on his hips and stared into the distance for a while. Then he got back in the car and changed direction and they continued on their way to … somewhere. She didn’t know where they were going, and apparently he didn’t either. Except maybe to hell. To some dark place she was never meant to see.

What am I doing? What am I doing here?

Dawn realized she’d been repeating the words aloud when she heard Tristan saying her name with force. He’d pulled to the shoulder again and angled his body to face her. She felt a sudden desire for him and had to look down when her cheeks started to warm. She let her hair fall between them as she busied herself with the books in her lap.

“Look at me,” he snapped.

With a sigh, she flipped her hair over one shoulder so she could see his face. His eyes were sharp and serious, and she knew hers looked much too wounded. She wanted to be strong, not vulnerable, but she was wearing down fast.

“You can’t escape,” he said fiercely. “You’re with me now, and you do what I say. If you start to lose your shit, you’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of that. Do you understand?”

“Fuck you,” she whispered.

“Maybe later,” he said savagely. He pulled back onto the road and drove.

It was midday when they arrived in a town called Mineral Springs. It was a small, unassuming town with Old West-style storefronts. There were two inns, both of them nicer than the motel in Ely. One was built to resemble a plantation, the other a log cabin. Tristan picked the log cabin and pocketed both room keys.

“What are we doing here?” Dawn asked hesitantly once he’d locked them in the room. “I mean, what are you doing? Are you supposed to be finding someone?”

“Yeah. But I only have a vague idea where he is. I’ve had to do this before. Fallon likes to run away.”

A nightmare vision of an eternal road trip to nowhere flashed in Dawn’s mind. She blinked it away, horr
ified. “W-why do you need him?”

“I don’t need him. Loftus does. My … father.” Tristan gave her an indecisive glance before co
ntinuing. “I don’t really know what for. From what I gather, Fallon knows alchemy.”

“Alchemy?” Dawn repeated dubiously.

“Look, I don’t know anything about it. They’ve been pretty secretive about it over the years. Are you hungry? You’re always hungry.” Tristan peered out the window. “There’s a café across the street.”

The café was a homey place filled with antique-y memorabilia from around town. There were no booths, only little oaken tables with matching chairs. Dawn and Tristan drew curious stares from the few locals there, probably lunchtime regulars.

Once they’d settled into the table furthest from the other diners, Dawn ordered a sandwich, while Tristan asked only for coffee.

She narrowed her eyes, watching him across the table. She liked to watch him, she realized. Her eyes never grew weary of him. He was the center of her external focus, b
ecause it was just the two of them. It was only natural she’d feel drawn to him eventually, even though she was his prisoner. It was natural, but she didn’t have to allow this attraction to disturb her moral sensibilities. This wasn’t romantic. This was wrong and weird and frightening.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said after he got his coffee, pale steam rising in front of his face. He tipped several su
gars into the mug, stirring each time.

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “What? Why?”

“I want to know.”

Her resolve to remain aloof and impassive so she wouldn’t get hurt was quickly disappearing. Dawn felt defiant now, angry at everything. She could have stood up in the middle of the café and started screaming, but she didn’t. Instead she uttered a derisive laugh. “Sorry, but you don’t get to know anything about me. I’m not going to give you fuel for whatever sick game you’re playing. I’m
not
your fucking toy. I
don’t
belong to you, and don’t make the mistake of thinking I do.”

Satisfied with herself, but still angry, she grabbed her glass of water and stared out the window. After a few seconds her eyes flicked to his long, bony hands working incessantly to pour individual creamers into the coffee. He might not have heard her angry speech for all the reaction he gave.

Scream. Scream now.

She didn’t.

“Do you even drink coffee?” she asked after a minute.

“What?”

“You’re working so hard putting stuff in it. Do you even drink it?”

Pushing the mug across the table to her, he smirked. “You want it?”

“Uh, no thanks. I just watched you put about seventeen sugars and nine creamers in there. I don’t like black coffee, but that’s taking it a little too far.”

“I don’t drink it,” he said. “It just gives me something to do with my hands.”

“What’s wrong with your hands?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay,” Dawn said, drawing out the word.

He met her eyes briefly, unamused by her sarcasm. Her sandwich arrived and he dragged his co
ffee back. Dawn ate while he clinked his spoon against the mug. Empty, torn packets of creamer and sugar littered the table between them.

“Let’s go,” he said as soon as she’d finished eating. He rose to his feet, threw down some money, and waited impatiently while she took several long drinks of water.

Back at the motel Tristan dragged a chair in front of the door, sat in it, and turned on the TV. Dawn glared at him for a moment, wondering what sort of psychotic thoughts flitted through his chemically imbalanced brain. She grabbed her books and lay back on the bed furthest from him. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to find this person, or whatever he was supposed to be doing on this trip. Time wasn’t something Leila had, though, and Dawn was acutely aware of that. Thinking of those screams still gave her the chills.

One of the books she’d chosen was about psychological disorders, and she’d opened right to the chapter on Stockholm syndrome. She laughed internally. It was so wonderfully coincidental, and o
bvious. She didn’t have to take responsibility for her feelings toward Tristan. They were simply a result of her brain working for her. Or against her.

She attempted to read about it but she could hardly finish a single paragraph, and the words meant not
hing. The book ended up resting on her stomach as she stared at the opposite wall. She felt strange and hollow. There was a quick fluid lightness in her blood, a stirring in her bones. She was terrified and restless. This time with Tristan would change and mark her forever.

Her thoughts drifted to the last art show Leila had dragged her to, a graduate exhibit of some kind. Dawn had worn a white tank top and jeans, and Leila had thrown together some quirky outfit of a
rgyle and lace, her black hair hanging straight down her back. The people milling about the room were her friends and classmates, but she stuck close to Dawn. Standing in front of a print of a man wearing a cape, they held matching cups of bubbly red punch.

“This doesn’t have any alcohol in it,” Leila had commented with a frown.

“I thought all artists were alcoholics,” Dawn said.