Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [59]
That room was in darkness, too, save one small desk lamp. It illuminated the intent, dreamy-eyed face of a man in his early forties. Black hair, hazel eyes, pale skin. On a good day, those features snapped with intelligence and vigor, a lively sense of humor that swept his students along with his enthusiasms. His hands were held over the lamp, palms facing each other, straining as though forcing something obdurate between them. His fingers shook from the effort, and his body language—hunched shoulders, bent legs—screamed tension of another sort. The pressure in the air came from him, shoved against him; a storm front waiting to happen.
“Oh, Neezer…”
Her mentor, still dressed from class in his khakis and lab coat, stared into the space between his palms, not acknowledging her entrance or her words. Not aware of either, she knew.
“There’s a line we dance on. On one side, control. On the other, chaos. Both are terribly, terribly appealing. But neither is safe, and neither’s very smart, either. Either one of them will suck you in, and never let you go.”
Neezer’s voice, three years past. She was fourteen again, sitting in the diner, drinking a bottomless glass of diet Pepsi, listening, but not really hearing. When you’re fourteen, the idea of losing yourself like that seems impossible. Unthinkable. It hadn’t seemed much more real at seventeen, either. Not until it happened to Neezer.
“There’s a price to be paid for magic. That much of every story is true.” Too much control and the joy dies. You can’t create, can’t improvise. Current becomes a tool, not a gift. That was the road the Council walked. Wren knew Neezer would have slit his own throat rather than go that road. But chaos…
Chaos meant wizzing, turning yourself over to the currents of magic. Letting it overwhelm you until there was no “you” left, not really. Until you were a current junkie, unable to separate from the magic at all. Not wanting to, at all. Endlessly creating, dissolving, creating…
Her breathing was harsh, strained. Pale brown eyes filled with tears, itching as if she had a sudden attack of allergies, hay fever in the middle of winter. She blinked the tears away, reaching for that balanced edge of control.
Ground. Focus, find the center within her, where her own current lay coiled, waiting. Know it, manipulate it. Reach out to the currents humming within the building, laced into the walls, twined into the electrical wiring of the high school. Power to power. She touched it, felt it gentle under her touch, calming her own nerves in return. Wren wiped one sweaty palm against her jeans, then covered his fingers with her own. They were cold, tingling.
“Neezer?”
He didn’t respond. Panic wound in her stomach, spitting acid.
“Neezer, wake up!”
In the real history, he had woken, at least for a little while. But in her dream he stayed silent, still staring…
No! I will stop this now. I will wake up NOW.
Her eyes shot open and she stared up at the ceiling. It was dark, the still-quiet that comes before false dawn, the only time a city can ever be said to be quiet. Sweat dampened her skin, clumping her hair and making it stick to the back of her neck. Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes, and her throat felt tight not with fear, but sorrow. Sorrow, and loss. A dull aching pain that never, ever went away, not any moment she was awake or asleep. Don’t leave me alone….
It was the angel. That’s all. That’s enough.
Rolling onto her side, Wren kicked the sheets away, letting the night air cool her skin slightly. The sense of emptiness lingered. Her left hand reached out, almost without conscious thought, and lifted the phone off her nightstand. Speed dial number one, and the sound of ringing filled her ear.
“Didier.” A sleep-drenched sound, groggy. He had only left her apartment three hours ago. Even with his usual difficulty catching a cab, at that hour of the morning there shouldn’t have been any traffic. More than enough time to make it up and across town