An hour later, I come to, thrashing on the floor of a closet, rattling old brooms with my out-of-control feet. I gasp for air and clutch my throat, struggling for breath. My thoughts blend into each other, then separate into completely different paths. Azrael and her shadows chase them in vain, though, for a moment, she almost had me.
Groaning, I sit and push by back to the wall. My flashlight lies on the floor, its bright beam pointed toward the back of the cramped space. Eyes closed, head thrown back, I take deep breaths. Feeling blindly, I reach for the chocolate bar I set on top of an overturned metal bucket. The wrapper crinkles as I tear it open. I take a bite and let the chocolate and caramel melt in my mouth.
Stupid. Very stupid, my sane internal voice says. The crazy one, the one that convinced me to try medication on my own disagrees. You’re still here, aren’t you? it boasts.
“Yep, still here. You heard that, Azrael? I’m still here!” My voice cracks. I press a trembling hand to my mouth and take a deep breath. I’m drained—nothing to boast about.
The decision to do this wasn’t easy. James answered my message and agreed to meet me by the Seattle Great Wheel tomorrow evening. The anticipation left me restless and full of a nagging energy that begged for something to do. I guess it didn’t have to be something this dangerous, but it’s not like I have choices. So I came here an hour ago, determined to grab this terrifying bull by the horns. My matador skills leave something to be desired, though, because it took me thirty minutes to simply convince myself to close my eyes and start the breathing exercises.
My t-shirt is drenched in sweat from the effort and … the fear, I admit. Being chased by the shadows terrifies me, and it’s not an idle terror. It’s jagged, sharp, determined and unrelenting. For over ten years, I’ve fought against it by scurrying away, filling my head with random, impossible-to-trace thoughts. Clearing my mind in meditation goes against all I know, even if an empty mind is a better punishment for the agent than one full of garbage.
The problem is that completely erasing all thoughts is difficult, and failing to do it quickly invites head-on attacks which are known to leave me twitching like a dismembered lizard’s tail. The assaults are brutal, a bitch to overcome. I’ve always needed help. So attempting this alone wasn’t only stupid, it was suicidal. But I had to. I can’t trust anyone here, not even Lyra.
So was it worth the risk? Sensible Marci asks.
Only one way to find out.
After a deep breath, I stare at the metal bucket. It practically stares back, mockingly. My every tendon and muscle tenses with the effort. My eyes sting and water, but I don’t blink. I go on staring, imagining laser beams shooting out of my eyes as if I’m freaking Supergirl.
Just when I’m about to admit that taking this risk deserves a Darwin Award, the bucket makes a small, rattling sound. My heart leaps with excitement. A smile curves my lips.
Well, I guess it was worth it.
Leaps and bounds might truly be a thing.
Guess who now has a daily date with the broom closet and the risk of eternal imprisonment?