Page 12 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Rory can see the rapid movements beneath her eyelids and wonders what she’s seeing, what she’s dreaming.

She shouldn’t be dreaming at all, he thinks. She shouldn’t even be unconscious. She looks so fragile, lying on the tufted cushion, head lolling to the side awkwardly. Exposed.

Her hips are twisted to the side, shoulders turned just slightly. He presses a hand to her forehead, cursing softly under his breath as her temperature seems to be rising still. He considers covering her with a blanket but worries it will only make the fever worse. He’s glad he had been standing so close to her, as it meant he was able to catch her before she fell out of the chair. Muchlike he did the night before, he gathered her up in his arms. But instead of carrying down the stairs to the basement, he made his way up to the room the house has so graciously gifted to her.

He kneels and angles his head to listen for her heartbeat, ear hovering just above her chest. There is nothing there, no beating of organs and no pulse. Blood rushes through her, but her heart does not push it. It means that the curse of his blood worked. Sheisa vampire.

He sniffs. The scent hovering about her delicately pale skin is all wrong though. Something floral and velvety, with a sweet, lithe layer of dew-drenched white flowers and the soft skin of fruit.

He shakes the image away, looking at Kane who is perched on the arm of the couch. “What did I do wrong?”

“She just needs rest,” insists Kane.

“She shouldn’t need to rest.”

Kane snaps his beak at Rory. “The Turn is complicated. Even with your years of existence, surely you know that there are things beyond what we understand. Not everyone reacts the same.”

He stands, still frowning at Calliope’s sleeping figure. “But—”

“Just let her rest.”

There is a moment of silence as Rory considers Kane with a furrowed brow, lips quirked to the side in thought.

Kane clicks his beak. “I’ll do some research, if it will ease your mind.”

Rory nods, as he glances at a clock ticking away on the wall. Time has gotten away from him, it seems, and he sighs deeply, a habit picked up after traveling among humans for the past three decades. “I need to stop by Clayton’s and put in an order. I’ll probably head to work right after. Can you keep an eye on her?”

Kane gives a short, throaty squawk. “Of course.”

“If she wakes up before I get back,” He points a finger at the bird, “you need to get her to drink.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says, dismissively. “Just get out of here. I’ll keep watch. Don’t worry.”

Rory nods again, shoving aside the dark, forbidding shadow of doubt that is growing inside of him.It’ll be fine, he tells himself as he leaves the room. Still, he can’t help pausing to look at Calliope one last time. She shifts slightly in her sleep, turning her head toward the back of the couch and away from the sunlight.

Kane squawks again, chest puffed out. “Get along. You don’t want to be late.”

* * *

The tires of Rory’s rusty car crunch against the dirt road as he turns onto the paved road, heading north toward the center of town. Soon, tall pine trees give way to open fields and squat houses in the distanceand in a few minutes more, he knows those wide-open spaces will turn to blocks of storefronts as the road makes its way through the town square.

He will turn off before it gets there, but he remembers when many of those buildings went up, constructed with the hope that the town would soon be bustling with residents and tourists alike. They christened the town with the vaguely arcane name of Morphic, which always made Rory think of changelings and shapeshifters even though the nearest magical community was hours away.

Still is, thankfully.

As the town expanded, new roads were paved, buildings were built, torn down, then built again. The name was changed to Willow Lake though Rory isn’t sure why, beyond the fact that it’s a more pedestrian moniker. There are a few lakes in Willow Lake, but none of them are called Willow. Rory isn’t even sure if willow trees grow in the area.

The biggest change, Rory noted when he moved back three years ago, is the addition of a freshly paved highway that skirts the edges of the wetlands and links up with the interstate on the opposite side. What had once been a promising town, growth and development sprawling out from the center like a flower unfurling its petals, has faded, as more and more tourists skip over the town entirely and well-established families move to cities in search of fortune and opportunity.

And yet, despite the ebb and flow of life in WillowLake, some things never change—a fact that Rory is eternally grateful for as he turns onto the long dirt drive that leads to the Clayton Farm. Although the original owner of the farm, Warren Clayton, passed away in the late 1970s, his great-granddaughter, Martha took up the reins. When Rory first knocked hesitantly on the door to the farm, in search of a sustainable food-source, he was grateful that she remembered him and his previous arrangement with her long-deceased great-grandfather.

He parks his car just off to the side, next to a fenced area where cows graze contentedly. The air is dusty and hot. The sun beats down on his shoulders, and he regrets the long-sleeve shirt he changed into, sleeves buttoned firmly at his wrists. Reluctantly, he rolls them up to his elbows before retrieving the crate of empty, cleaned bottles from the backseat and closes the door with his elbow. Rory is making his way up the front steps when the door opens, and he can just make out the curvy form of Martha through the screened door. She holds the door open, and Rory enters the cool darkness of the farmhouse.

Martha smiles. “Just in time. I just took some brownies out of the oven.”

“I couldn’t,” he says, hand on his stomach. “I had a big lunch.”

It’s a well-practiced interaction, almost scripted at this point, and she shakes her head with a laugh, her golden hair bouncing around her face. “I’ll get you tostay for a meal one of these days,” she says, motioning for him to follow her into the kitchen. “You’re too skinny,” she adds over her shoulder with a smirk.

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