My name is James James, and I do not exist . . .
Myra dreamed that James had again taken up his letter.
The mage sat alone in the library. Once more, the furniture in the room had been re-arranged. The massive oaken desk at which James sat had been drug close to the fireplace, possibly for warmth, possibly for the light it offered. Pen and ink discarded at his elbow, he ruined the silence with the metallic click-clack of a typewriter. The flames on the hearth licked at the pile of logs therein, a quiet observer to the scene.
“A bit melodramatic, don’t you think?” Laurel sidled up to read over James’ shoulder. “Stephen okay with you using his Sholes?”
“I thought it fitting.” James’ muttered answer was met with raised eyebrows.
“I thought you hated the thing.” Laurie rifled through the discarded papers, drawing an irritated hiss from James.
“Yes, well, the damnable bell’s been taken care of.”
Laurel interpreted James’ complaint with the pursed lips of judgment. “So he’s not fine with your using it. You’ll fix it when you’re done? James?”
A grunt. James resumed his typing, tipping his head to the papers Laurel had shuffled and muttering incoherently.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Laurel tried again, turning to lean back against the table’s edge so that she faced James. He looked up at her then. Danger thickened the air of the library. The scene was poignant, two silhouettes backed by the bright shadows of flame. It felt almost like a portent.
“It’s just a letter.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, Laurie. A formal letter of resignation, long overdue—”
“It’s a suicide note.” Laurel’s normally melodic voice grew sour.
James lowered his gaze. “Well, call it that if it makes you feel better about yourself. You’ve gotten what you’ve wanted out of me. Now I must do what I need to do. To protect you—all of you. Steve came back. He came back, Laurie. Doesn’t that—” He choked on his emotion. “Doesn’t what that means to me mean anything to you?”
“You and Steve. Hotheads, both of you.” Laurel shifted, crossing her arms in false petulancy. “You’re going to force a move.”
“That’s the idea of it.” Even unable to see his face, Myra could feel James grinning.
“Be careful, James James. Don’t do anything rash by these words.” She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. “And don’t stay up too late. Neither of you are superhuman.” At this last, Laurel looked straight towards where Myra watched from within her dream.
James waited. The machine grew silent under fingers that hovered impotently over the keys. Laurel shrugged and walked away. For a long moment, James remained frozen, his eyes on the words of the drooping page, his ears trained to the sound of the woman’s retreating steps.
Nodding to himself, as though he had arrived at a decision, James continued his moody prodding of the machine’s keys. The storm in his soul was ebbing, his energies having bled out onto the paper before him. It was believable after such an expenditure that James James might well no longer exist. Violent as raindrops dashed on a window pane, the final notes of his typing rang out and then ceased.
Myra sat up in bed, called to waking by a low rumble of thunder. It broke over the house, rattling all within.
Including nerves.
Myra flung herself back down upon her pillows, willing her dream to conclusion. But it was no use. A flash of lightning beat against her eyelids and roused her further as thunder like booted feet pounded the hallway outside her room.
Turning over with a groan, Myra stuffed a pillow to her ears. The thunder deepened, drew nearer.
The door to her bedroom burst open. A hooded figure leveled a wand at her heart. Shrieking, Myra reached blindly for her wand, her gaze caught on the intruder. More lightning. And then? A blank, black silence.