Page 12 of The Deer and the Dragon
“I think I started writing this book because I was so sure using my imagination would stop this,” I said at last. “That I could channel all of this excess creativity and get it out of my system. But you didn’t go away. And then I thought maybe I was still holding on to you because I needed the rock while escorting, or the reassurance while querying. That you’d go away if this day ever came.”
The smile returned. I sensed it from his inhalation before I felt him. I stopped speaking the moment cool hands slid upmy thighs. The contact was as much for me as it was for him, I supposed. If I couldn’t see him, at least I could feel him. “Do you want to talk about your books?”
I gave a short, dry laugh. “Is there anything you don’t already know?”
His voice contained a playful lilt as he said, “You don’t know the half of what I know.”
“So, tell me,” I said.
His lips drew a chilled, electric line from my ear down my jaw. His mouth ended on my throat as he murmured, “I thought I was just your imagination? If that’s the case, shouldn’t you know everything I know?” His hands stilled as he said, “I want you for so much more than sex, Love.”
Though my eyes remained closed, I tilted my face away from him.
“I want it all,” he said. “You’ve corralled me into the smallest corner of yourself. I need you to hear it from me when I say: I’d give you the world. Instead, I’m giving you everything you’re allowing me to offer.”
I smiled, though it wasn’t entirely joyous. Appreciating the support of my subconscious genie, I asked, “While you’re granting wishes, can you make sure this book sells? If Asher’s representing me, then I have a shot with one of the Big Five publishers. It’s a pipe dream. But then again, so is getting an agent in the first place. Even making this much money…well…it’s been a dream for a while. I may as well continue dreaming.”
The vibration of his low chuckle tingled against my throat as he said, “I think I can pull a few strings.”
SEPTEMBER 8, AGE 24
“Caliban?” I asked into the gloom. I thought I’d heard a noise. A pop somewhere. A shift of weight. The squeak of a shoe. A breath, maybe.
I hated the silence that answered, even though I insisted itwas what I wanted. Maybe my inability to make up my mind was why I couldn’t get him to leave. Because he was right. I didn’t want him gone. And yet…
Maybe my cocktail of drugs was finally working. Maybe my therapist had a breakthrough. Maybe paying off my debts, my student loans, my car, and taking up permanent residence for months as the number oneNew York Timesbestseller had satiated the long-needed urge for success. Maybe the new apartment, the nice clothes, the relaxed schedule, the validation from the only two friends in my life, and the fully remote lifestyle of a writer had chipped away at whatever had remained of the trauma that had forced me into manifesting a walking fiction. Maybe sending the polished version of the second novel to EG only to have her send me a four-minute voice message crying about the heartbreaking plot twist and the gorgeous lore had filled my long-empty cup that craved validation. Maybe seeing my face, my pen name, thePantheonnovels on pop-up ads and social media posts and banners on every web page had fixed the part of me that had needed him.
Maybe I’d healed from whatever had cracked within me when I was so young that I’d needed to create an imaginary friend in order to survive.
Maybe the neglected part of me that had wandered away from my family toward the woods, that was scooped up by strong arms and urged back into the sanctuary of inattentive parents, no longer needed to conjure an unseen presence. Maybe my first memory of a smiling face and comforting friend had covered a darker, harder memory that I was unwilling to face, no matter how hard I dug for what might have really happened that day.
Maybe the white fox that had accompanied me for years was the product of a lonely child in a trailer park, a heartbroken failure in a religious home, the coping mechanism of a girl who had been denied a pet and had to invent one. Maybe the one I saw as I took silent trips into the woods in my teens, the lithe fox made of little more than starlight and dreamsthat would walk beside me, was a product of wishing I hadn’t been so deeply and profoundly abandoned.
Maybe I’d fabricated a face when I’d needed a friend and used the only vocabulary that my deeply evangelical parents had understood when I described my guardian angel.
Maybe I’d imagined the way my mother’s face had flicked from joy to concern to panic as I went on to describe my interaction with my guardian throughout the years, explaining his omnipresence, describing the sideways tilt of his smile, the strength of his hugs, the joy of his friendship, his beautiful animal form, and the way I’d prayed for God to protect and bless him, just as I prayed for myself or my parents. Maybe I’d been reading too much into her response when she’d called our pastor in tears and begged him to pray over me, to bring the church elders to cleanse our home.
Maybe I’d stopped talking about him the day I’d been dragged to therapy because I knew nothing good could come from speaking his name. Maybe I’d worked through my issues regarding the church, my family, my life, my studies, and had felt complete, healed, and fine. Maybe I’d moved overseas the week of graduation to use my literary degree for English and to seek a new start, leaving behind my very specific, consistent brand of psychosis as if it had geographical ties. Maybe my breath had caught in the ten-hour flight between North America and Colombia when a hand had slipped over mine in the darkened cabin, filling the empty seat that had remained vacant between me and a sleeping passenger, when lips pressed against my temple, and I knew my problems would follow me wherever I went.
Maybe after returning to the U.S., after the escorting, after the novels, after the luxury apartments and bank accounts filling to the brim and the golden designer ring that glimmered on my finger as if I were a married woman, I’d stop thinking about who I was or why I was here.
Maybe if his visits stopped altogether, I could let him go. Maybe if they continued every night, I could believein them. Maybe if I didn’t wait on bated breath to see if a day, or a week, or a month would go by before I’d feel his presence again. Maybe I wouldn’t close my mouth, breathing through my nose, praying for the distant, mossy scents of cypress and gin.
Maybe.
Chapter Six
APRIL 30, AGE 26
A loud voice called over the crowd. T-shirts, jeans, cosplay, and the permeating smell of popcorn filled the air. Harsh, unflattering fluorescents hung forty feet overhead, washing out the throngs of attendees. There had been so much noise, so much commotion from the time the doors opened that I was shocked I’d been able to hear him. The single word pierced the air like an arrow to the heart, slicing through the cluster of people.
I flinched at the name, head whipping up. He repeated it, shouting the false identity over the heads of those around him. “Maribelle?”
God, I already hated these fucking conventions. This was my second May wasted on the tour circuit. A necessary evil, perhaps, but an evil nonetheless. I hated leaving my house long enough to get groceries, let alone to be swarmed by thousands of strangers, assaulted by their conversations and the smells of the deep-fried foods, repeating the same answers, forcing the same smile for hours. I did my best to be polite, but I was so overstimulated by the end of each convention that it took me five days of silence to recover. EG accompanied after I’d failed spectacularly at my first convention, growing so anxious that I’d made a woman cry and left three hours early.
They’d offered me attendants and security and handlers, but my bubble of trust was miniscule, and EG was the only person I wanted around me amid the hordes. She probably didn’t get paid enough to put up with my bullshit. Then again, I’d made Inkhouse a lot of money. I suspected she was doing fine.
I didn’t need another reason to hate events, and yet, I hadn’t even considered the worst-case scenario. The doors to the convention had been on their hinges for less than an hour before my nightmare personified descended.
