A squeak sounds behind me, and I turn just as a rat races across the floor. I jump, stumbling back. That’s when I see the front desk, now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark. It’s . . . crooked? No, not crooked. The entire top is bashed in, as if someone took a sledge hammer to it.
What the hell happened in here?
As I look around, I notice debris on the floor. The rat nest in the corner. The cobwebs hanging from every surface.
I race back outside, the door slapping shut behind me. Then I stand outside the office and catch my breath. When I squint against the morning sun, I’m looking at an empty parking lot.
There were cars and trucks here last night.
That flap-flap sounds again. I follow it to a sign. A big weather-beaten sign anchored by one post where there’d once been two.
I pick my way to the sign.
For Sale.
A faded For Sale sign that has weathered at least one winter. My gaze sweeps the motel and diner and gas bar. They’re all closed. Permanently closed, with yellow tape around the gas pumps and broken windows in the diner.
I’m dreaming.
I fell asleep beside Connolly, and I’m dreaming.
No, I fell asleep in that basement room, and I’ve been dreaming ever since.
That’s the easiest—and worst—explanation, yet I know it’s not the answer because there’s been nothing unreal before this moment.
As wild as that last night has been, it’s all grounded in reality. I can tell myself I must be dreaming if I think Connolly actually confessed his feelings for me—and then turned out to be such a passionate and considerate lover—but that’s bullshit. Dig past all my insecurities, and I’d already known he was interested in me as more than a friend. His lovemaking wasn’t unexpected either.
Maybe only this part is a dream? Or dream shaping? Vanessa’s progeny have the ability to shape dreamscapes. Yet something else nudges at me, another idea, not yet ready to be voiced.
I touch the sign and feel the dirty cardboard. I hear it flapping in the wind. I take one last look around, and then I run back to the motel room, letting stones dig into my bare feet.
I throw open the door. The room is empty, and my stomach drops into free fall. Then I see the light under the almost-closed bathroom door. It opens, and Connolly comes out.
“Coffee’s on,” he says. “I poured you a cup . . .” He frowns at me, poised in the doorway, one hand on either side of the frame. “Kennedy?”
“Does this room look normal to you?” I say.
His frown grows.
“Any sign that it’s an illusion?” I say.
The furrow between his brows deepens, but he says, “No. That’s definitely coffee I just drank. Or I certainly hope so.”
“Come outside,” I say.
He doesn’t question, He just follows me onto the sidewalk. His feet touch down, and he readjusts as he steps on crumbling concrete.
“Was it like that last night?” I say. “The sidewalk?”
“Crumbling? I didn’t notice it when we arrived. I did when I went to get the bandages. I felt it, at least, and then I saw it was in poor . . .”
He trails off as he looks around. “There were cars.”
“Yes.”
As he walks, he shades his eyes against the rising sun. “Is that tape around the pumps?”
“Yes.”
I stay where I am while Connolly walks to the pumps and then back to the motel, circling past the front office before returning to me.
“We are awake, yes? This isn’t another dream shaping?”
“We’re awake.”
“Everything’s closed. Has been closed for months. What we saw last night was an illusion.” He glances at our room and shudders. “Tell me I didn’t just drink year-old coffee.”
“Not sure you’d notice at this hour, but no. We did not imagine having hot water and power to run the jacuzzi or—thankfully—clean linens. I thought last night that our room was remarkably clean for this type of place. That’s because it was staged. Everything outside was an illusion, though you could still feel the crumbling sidewalk when you walked on it barefoot. Someone made up the room and turned on the power for us.”
“The man at the front desk? Was he an illusion, too?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think you can interact with illusions.”
Connolly continues standing there, staring out at the empty lot. “I know a couple of illusion spinners. They can’t do anything on this scale. Maybe if they worked together?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t even wrap my head around this one, Kennedy. So we ran out of gas and randomly ended up here, where an illusion spinner was waiting with a restored honeymoon suite for us?”
“I haven’t worked it all out either. It’s big magic. Huge magic. The likes of which I can’t quite comprehend either.”
I shiver against the morning chill and rub my arms, and he comes over to put his arms around me. I twist to lean into him, his hands locking around my waist, the warmth of him against my back.
“I do have an idea, though,” I say.
“Go on.”
“The immortals have stronger powers than we do, right? Plus extra powers we lack.”
“Yes.”
“And illusion weavers are descended from . . .”
He sucks in a breath.
“Should I keep going?” I say. “Or am I overthinking it?”
“Keep going.”
“That painting last night bothered me. It was so . . .”
“Traumatic.”
I start to deny it. Traumatic, no, no. Nothing like that. Instead I lift one shoulder and say, “Vastly unpleasant. But beyond that, it’s one hell of a curse. I’ve seen more dangerous ones, but I’m not sure I’ve ever encountered one that elaborate. The Crying Girl illusion is relatively simple. I’d like to think I could replicate it, though I wouldn’t want to. With Eldest Daughter, the illusion is also simple. The visions of our so-called futures require serious curse weaving. My grandmother might have been able to do it. So Eldest Daughter is within the realm of possibility. Vengeful Boy is a whole other level. A pursuing illusion that can inflict physical damage goes beyond curse weaving.”
“It would require illusory magic.”
“Serious illusory magic, combined with serious curse weaving. Last night, when we got here, I thought the clerk looked familiar. Then he turned, and I lost that impression.”
“Hector,” Connolly murmurs. “He vaguely resembled Hector. I thought it was just because he was a large man.”
“So I put all that together, and I remember who forced Mercy to do blood curses. Who would know, better than anyone, that it would be, yes, traumatic to even bring that up. Which is what this person wants. Mercy distracted. Athene distracted along with her.”
“Pretending to want a blood curse would trigger Mercy’s trauma. Get her so focused on avoiding it that she doesn’t look closer enough to see flaws in the supposed plan. Doesn’t realize she’s being intentionally misled.”
I nod. “I’m hesitating with the theory because, just last night with the storm, I was thinking it was as if the god of thunder conjured it up. I don’t want to be leaping to a conclusion because of a passing thought.”