“Why is he like that?” He glanced over at the creature on the wall, whose grin split like a jack o’ lantern. It was as though the shadow liked being talked about. “It’s complicated. Short version, he is my subconscious.” The shadow stuck his tongue out at Simon. The Puppeteer rolled his eyes. “Now, sit, please. We have a lot to discuss, and you should calm down before we begin.” He gestured at her sofa again.
This was all madness. Utter madness. But this didn’t feel like a dream—it felt real. The glass in her hands was cold. She could smell the lime. Nothing felt fuzzy or strange. She slowly sat on the sofa and wedged herself into the far corner, trying to make herself as small as possible.
Simon smiled at his victory. “Good. Now. Take a breath.” He reached down and patted her knee. She jolted at the contact, but it didn’t seem to register with him. He walked away from her, clearly too curious about her home to give up prowling around. He returned to the kitchen and flicked off the stove that was still-simmering pasta sauce.
He dipped his finger into the sauce and tasted it, let out a thoughtful noise, and began digging through her spice rack by the stove to find something. “Not bad. Needs a little oregano. But that isn’t bad at all.”
“I don’t like this dream.”
He laughed hard as he put a few dashes of the seasoning into the mix and began stirring it. “Dream or not, seems a shame to mess this up. Do you like to cook?”
“Yeah…”
“Have you any skill at it?”
“I think so?” What the fuck was happening? Seriously? Cora sipped the limeade and tried to calm down. But everything was so confusing, so unexpected, she didn’t know what to do.
“Good. I haven’t had anyone who can cook in a long time.” He finished tinkering with her sauce and discovered her microwave a moment later. He opened the door with the button and jumped in surprise as the door ejected toward him. “Oh. Hah. Yes. Firebreather has one of these, but it’s much older and…not nearly so fancy.” He poked at the buttons, making it loudly beep a few times. He cackled in amusement and poked a few more, resetting the clock in the process.
“What’s wrong with you?”
He grinned at her toothily again. “That, my dear, is a very large question with a very lengthy answer, best left for a day where you are not on the verge of weeping in terror.” He sniffed. “But the heart of the question I think you’re asking is in regard to my fascination with all your shiny toys.”
No, I’m asking why you’re a fucking lunatic, but that’s a good start, I guess. “Sure.” Best not to provoke the crazy ones. Especially the crazy ones who had weird super-powers that could probably rip her to pieces and a disembodied shadow that was still staring at her.
“I can’t leave the Faire. None of us can. This is as close as I’ve been to ‘out’ in a very, very long time.” He was now examining one of her pieces of artwork on the wall. It was a photo she had taken of a lighthouse on the coast five or six years ago. It was one of her favorites, and it had won a few awards. He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I saw your camera. Is this one of yours?”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.” He reached out and laid his fingers on the glass, tracing the light and dark. “Lovely use of contrast and form.”
She paused. He was complimenting her. “Thanks…”
“You take photographs for a living. Or at least…you used to.” He looked to her, his expression sympathetic. “Until your illness took that away from you. Tragic, to have the world denied this beauty because of your bad luck. Worse, to add the pain of losing your passion to the pain of your body.”
She cringed and looked away, taking her eyes off him and the monstrous shadow for a moment. His comment was too on point. It stabbed at her. She coped with her issues by not facing them, most days. Being reminded of it like that was too much. Especially from him. She looked down into her limeade and didn’t know how to answer.
“You are in such pain, such constant agony. Look at you. You’re strong to not fall apart. You’re struggling to keep yourself together—literally—aren’t you? What is it that you suffer from?”
“Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.” She felt her jaw tick, and she glanced away from Simon for a moment. The sunglasses were eerie. Everything about him was eerie. It was like he wasn’t quite possible. This was a dream, after all. But she knew that wasn’t a real excuse. “It means my tendons and ligaments are too loose. My joints are hypermobile. It’s not as fun as it sounds. At least I don’t have the version where my organs fall out of place or rip open. I can walk. Some people with my disease can’t.”
“Fascinating…I’ve never heard the name of it before. Poor, pretty thing like you. You shouldn’t be this way. I can make it so you never feel pain again.”
“What’s happening to me?”
“We’ve been through this.” His voice was right there near her, and she jerked up. She nearly spilled her drink, and would have, if he hadn’t caught it. He sat on her coffee table across from her and handed the drink back to her. “The Faire took a piece of you. This much you know.”
“It’s a lie.”
“It isn’t. You can keep hoping it is—but everything you have seen, and felt, and know—” He reached out and poked her in the chest between her collarbones. She shrank away from him. “Tells you otherwise.”
She swallowed thickly. She didn’t like how close he was. His knees were on either side of her right leg, toothed together with hers. If she wanted to run, he’d catch her easily. But she was already trapped, wasn’t she? Those strings of his…there was no telling what they were capable of, but she figured she had only seen the beginning of it.
For the moment, he seemed content not to hurt her. She sipped the limeade to try to settle her stomach and her pounding heart. He took the glass on the way down and sipped it himself, humming. “That’s good. Better than lemonade, I dare say.” He handed it back to her. “Now. Can I begin? Or are you going to have a panic attack?”
“Begin…what?”
“Convincing you.”
“Of what?”
He grinned. Or maybe he never stopped. She wasn’t quite sure. Leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, he hovered close to her. She recoiled, suddenly worried he was going to kiss her.
His words felt like they came from the pits of Hell, even if she knew he meant them to sound like a trumpet of the Heavens.
“That I am the end to all your problems.”
8
“But…why?”
Simon blinked in confusion. He sat back a little bit and pondered her. “What do you mean?”
“Why me?”
“Ah. Yes. Well, you see, I get something out of this, too, of course.” He shrugged. “Can’t get something for nothing, after all. As I said, the Faire sustains itself on taking from those who enter it as you did—foolishly not heeding Barker’s warning. But it isn’t in the content that it survives—it’s in the act of the taking. Like a fisherman who throws his catches back into the sea might still find satisfaction in the deed.”