"Yes, we lock the doors at night to keep you and others safe," Dr. Livingstone says. "But you have been fed regularly since you got here, and you keep throwing the food out. You were given clothing you refused to wear." He tilts my chin to look up at him. "Your mind has been playing tricks on you. That's why you're here."
Tears burn my eyes. "This can't be real."
"How much do you remember of the night you tried to take your life?" he asks.
"All of it," I say, trying not to panic. "I remember all of it."
"I don't think you do," he says. "The reason you're here and not a regular hospital is to protect you."
"From who?" I ask. Fear curls in my gut. If they can do this—if they can make me doubt my own sanity—how much more are they capable of?
"From yourself.”
“But why would I do this? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“The night you tried to kill yourself, you hurt someone with your magic."
"What?" I ask, stepping back from him. "That's not true. That never happened."
"She died, Celeste.” He pauses, studying me. "The woman you hurt died. That's why you're here. Everyone here has taken a life because of their powers. Le Rêve is the only safe place for people like us. For murderers."
8
There’s a loud pop and my door ignites in a flaming inferno. I have no idea how it happens, but I’m too upset to care. As flames lick their way across the door’s surface, Dr. Livingstone calls out for backup. A moment later, three men enter, all wearing scrubs. The first grabs the blanket off my bed and begins swatting the fire to smother it. The other two come straight for me.
The doctor steps back as the orderlies overpower me and force me onto my bed. When one of them produces a syringe, I almost stop struggling. In this moment, I have never felt more helpless.
Dr. Livingstone is a liar. They all are.
Even with fresh sheets and soft carpet, this place is a nightmare.
As the syringe is plunged into my arm and I feel the coldness of the drug racing into my veins, I lock eyes with the doctor and pour every ounce of disgust and fury into my glare.
He doesn’t look away from me.
Regret is etched on his features. And sadness; a loss that seems so deep, I don’t understand how it could be meant for me.
“We’re enemies, you and I. I won’t forget this,” I tell him, the words an oath I make to myself as the drugs begin to lull me.
I stop moving as my limbs turn leaden with the effects of whatever they’ve shot into me.
The orderlies back away, watching me as my lids droop heavier and heavier. The last thing I hear before I’m sucked into oblivion are the whispered words of Estelle who hovers like a specter inside the flames they’re still trying to put out. “No, sister. It’s not him you must defeat. The enemy is inside.”
“Miss D’LeLune, please have a seat.”
I shuffle to the offered chair and sit, sinking into the soft cushions. My body feels heavy with the after-effects of the drugs. I’m not sure where I am, but at the moment, I don’t really care, either.
“How are you feeling?”
I look at the man who spoke, my vision still blurry. He wears suit slacks with a dress shirt rolled to the elbows. Something expensive and classic.
His cropped dark hair and short-trimmed beard frame expressive eyes that stare curiously back at me. His features are relaxed, and despite the secrets he seems to hold, something about his expression invites me to relax too.
“I’m tired,” I tell him.
“Yes, an outburst like that will drain you.”
Outburst?
The fire. Dr. Livingstone. His accusations.
“I was upset.”
I have no idea if he means to somehow punish me for the damage I’ve caused, but he only nods, affirming me.
“Of course. It’s to be expected.”
I don’t know what that means, but trying to glare with such tired eyes only serves as a reminder of what they did to me.
“I don’t like being drugged,” I say, trying hard to sound angry.
My drugged brain moves slowly as does my sensory processing. All I can focus on are his words, my next breath, and the feel of the chair’s fabric underneath my hands.
“Magic is an emotional thing. We should work on mastering your emotions so we don’t have to repeat such drastic measures.”
Drastic measures. I snort.
You’d think kidnapping me was drastic enough.
“Miss D’LeLune, can you tell me how you created that fire?”
What?
“I...”
I glance around, noting the fish tank in the corner and the constant buzzing sound it makes. When I realize it’s empty, I look closer.
Instead of water and fish, there’s a reptile curled inside the glass tank.
The buzzing is from a heat lamp that shines into the cage. I stare at it, jealous of the warmth.
“Do you like snakes, Miss D’LeLune?”
“No.” I shudder and the man’s lips press into something like a smile.
But it isn’t.
He’s a snake.
The buzzing of the tank’s lamp thrums in my head, drowning out the voices that begin to whisper.
“Do you know when your magic first surfaced?”
I blink, tearing my attention from the caged serpent. The man watches me with a calculated charm.
Don’t trust him.
“I didn’t know I had magic until I came here.”
“And now that you know, how do you feel about it?”
I look around again. Nothing about this room is familiar.
“How did I get here?”
“You walked.”
Did I?
Between us is a coffee table and on it, a digital recorder.
“I thought I was supposed to have sessions with Dr. Livingstone.”
“This is a bonus session,” he says, and something about the words, the way he says them, sends a shiver up my spine. His calmness seems practiced now.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Dr. Cutter.”
The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place from where.
“What do you want with me?”
“To help you,” he says.
And even though it’s a direct echo of what Dr. Livingstone says, it sounds different.
Lie.
The voices are angry, and I know instinctively this man wants something from me that I won’t want to give willingly.
“I don’t want your help.”
He gives that placating smile again. “You killed someone with your magic. If it weren’t for me, you’d be in prison.”
I tell myself it’s a lie. I didn’t kill anyone.
“I’m already in prison.”
“Le Rêve is a sanctuary,” he says, and I don’t bother to argue. I’m too tired. “We save creatures like you. Help them understand what they are.”
“And what am I?”
“You’re a witch, Miss D’LeLune.”
At least he doesn’t pretend I’m here for my mental health.
In the terrarium, the snake has begun to move, climbing the walls and pointing its forked tongue at the lid. Its skin is a beautiful shade of aquamarine and I’m mesmerized by the way it glides through its space.