555Carson Morgan groaned and opened one eye a slit, then shut it again because the light hurt too much. Something in that tequila had been giving him hallucinations – and strange dreams.
In all honesty the dreams hadn't been that bad; he'd dreamt that a Victoria's Secret model in a form-fitting red dress had driven up to him on a Harley Davidson motorcycle and begged him to come away with her. But he couldn't remember anything after that. Maybe he'd passed out.
There was an earthquake inside his skull, playing racquetball with his drugged brain. Man, how much had he had to drink last night? The alcohol was still doing strange things to his system: a buzz was filtering through his body, and now and then something like a jolt would hit him so hard he thought his poor abused brain would splatter in its shell. And to top it off he was hearing things. Talk about the worst hangover in history. This was the last time he let Sean pick the drink, Victoria's Secret hallucinations or no.
Deciding it was time to face the music, Carson braced himself and opened his eyes.
But the hallucination was still going. Desert was flying by as he watched through a helmet visor, and he was sitting on the back of a Harley Davidson motorcycle, strapped to the gorgeous Victoria's Secret model around the waist. He sighed. It was a shame the pain had to carry over into the mirage. Maybe then he could've enjoyed himself. As it was all he could force himself to do was talk to her, and hope he was still drunk enough for her to respond.
"Hello."
"Can't you say anything besides 'hello'?" she snapped irritably.
Well, maybe it wasn't such a good thing that he was still this drunk, after all. He hadn't counted on the model being a bitch. Maybe he should tell her she was a bitch. No, she'd probably kick him, and he'd already figured out that pain had no qualms about showing itself in this illusion. Alright then, he'd try to wake himself up.
Carson had unlatched the helmet and was about to throw it off when a hand slammed it back down, warping his splattered brain into a pancake.
"Don't do that," the model hissed irritably. She hadn't taken her eyes off the road, or even budged except for her arm. How had she known…?
But it was a dream, she was allowed to have invisible eyes in the back of her head. Carson sucked in a breath to stop himself from moaning with pain. That hurt dammit. He needed to get out of here…
How?
There was always the good old fashioned method of pinching himself. He shrugged and tried doing it to the underside of his arm, wincing every time. It didn't wake him up, however, and on the seventh wince the model actually turned her head to stare at him in disbelief, apparently able to navigate the road using other senses. Even through the tinted visor, she took his breath away. Every visible feature of her face could have been sculpted from marble, and her eyes – which looked gold through the visor – were hypnotical. For a minute he reconsidered his decision to wake up. But then she spoke.
"What are you doing?"
"Waking up."
"You're awake, genius. As unfortunate as that might be for some of us." She turned her head back to the road, apparently disgusted by something.
Geez, talk about a temper. Carson decided the best plan of action was to just ignore her. He pinched himself again, really hard.
"Stop that," she hissed in a voice so menacing Carson was sure he would have been afraid for his life, if this wasn't a dream. Of course, it was a dream, so there was nothing to worry about. He pinched himself again.
A hand made out of skin-colored steel clamped down over his fingers. There was no stopping it; he let out an 'ow' that would have echoed for a long time, if they hadn't been surrounded by desert. Strangely, he thought he sensed satisfaction emanating from the woman in front of him, though she hadn't bothered to turn her head this time.
"Listen, pretty boy," her hand didn't relax its crushing hold on his fingers, "I've had a long night. I've spent the last seven hours driving like a maniac to get away from death on wheels after saving your drunken ass from sudden extermination. I hope you've had a nice little nap, because I haven't slept in 24 hours. If you second guess, double-cross, or otherwise contradict me again, I'll fracture more than your finger. Clear?"
Carson was in too much agony to form a coherent response so he nodded and she seemed to understand. Her iron hand released its hold and he stared at his red shaking fingers in shock.
If that didn't wake me up…
"So you're telling me you're real?" he blurted, not because he actually believed this was happening, as he valiantly told himself – he just needed to decipher head from tail of this impossible delusion.
"Would you like to feel how real I am again?"
Carson didn't answer. Logically, it was the only safe thing to do. They drove on in silence for a few more minutes. Finally, curiosity got the better of him.
"What do you mean you saved my ass from sudden extermination?"
"I always mean exactly what I say." It was obvious that the words were weaseling out from behind gritted teeth. Still, he needed to know more.
"But why –"
"You know what Carson? I don't feel like answering questions right now. If you ask me another one before we get to the safe house, I'll shoot you myself and save Mercalli's goons the trouble. Now shut up and enjoy the morning."
Holy shit she knows my name.
He knew better than to test her threat, but his brain – fried though it was – was seething with infinitely more questions than before. How the hell did she know his name? Who was Mercalli? Why did his 'goons' want to shoot Carson, of all people? And who the heck was this beautiful, poisonous woman, for that matter? Ultimately they all compacted themselves into one un-ask-able question at the forefront: how much longer to the safe house?
Forty-five minutes, as it turned out. But she didn't seem any more inclined to pander to his curiosity when they arrived at the simple whitewashed building than she'd been on the road. Ignoring him completely, apparently assuming he'd follow, she parked the Harley, unfastened the belt holding them together, swung herself lightly off the leather seat and headed for the door. She didn't look like she hadn't slept in 24-plus hours.
I always mean exactly what I say.
Because of the tone of that comment alone, he believed her. Sliding stiffly off the motorcycle himself, he walked through the open front door in time to see her handing her helmet and keys over to a short, plumpish woman in her sixties.
" – anywhere you have room for him. Feed him something if he's hungry, just make sure he's ready to go at nine. Thanks Mattie." Without looking back she started up the stairs.
"Hey –" Carson started to follow her but the woman called Mattie blocked his way.
"Whoa, whoa, hold on a second there, deary."
"Where's she going?"
"To sleep hon, she's plum tuckered out, the poor dear."
Carson's mind took another jolt at the incongruous clash of the same woman who'd nearly broken his hand a little bit ago being a 'poor dear.' But he swallowed the remark and turned to Mattie imploringly.
"Look, she can't go to sleep now, I have to ask her –"
"Now, now, calm down a second, just slow down. You don't wanna go interrupting her while she sleeps. She's a sweet girl, really, but a bit brusque at times around people she doesn't know well, and I reckon she'd snap you in two if you went up there now. I can answer your questions, if you have any."
Sweet girl? A bit brusque? Were they talking about the same person?
"Who is she?"
"Oh my, didn't even tell you that then, did she?" Mattie chuckled a little to herself. "That's Sahara O'Brien. Works for the NTDA, she does, and so do I, and so will you by the end of this, if I'm not mistaken."
"What's the NTDA?"
"Now, now, calm down, just calm down a second. Sit and I'll make you some tea and we can talk about anything you like, alright deary?"
"No, I've been waiting since –"
"Don't worry, hush, hush, you're going to find out everything you want to know in the end, but it'll all make a lot more sense t'you once you've gotten rid of that nasty hangover now, won't it?"
"I –" he stopped. "How did you know I have a hangover?"
"Why Sahara told me, o'course. Now you just sit down right there, that's a good man."
Carson did sit down, mainly because he was in shock that motorcycle model bitch had done something as thoughtful as mention his hangover to this apparently nice woman.
"You're a nice looking young man, you are," Mattie's soft, cheerful voice snapped him out of it. She poked into a cupboard and sifted through an assortment of tiny baggies containing what looked like crushed leaves in various colors. Selecting one with a decisive "mmhm" she sprinkled a pinch of the contents into the boiling water. Carson wondered what she expected a pinch that small to do to the mixture in the pot – it wasn't enough to provide any distinct flavoring, much less cure a hangover. Maybe she'd gotten the task of tea-making down to an art or something. Mattie stirred the liquid placidly for a few moments, then muttered to herself again "a very nice looking young man indeed."
Another minute or two passed, Mattie humming over the tea cheerfully while Carson waited, more impatient every second. But he trusted this woman. She was kind, honest, pleasant. If she said he'd find out everything he wanted to know eventually, he'd force himself to be polite and wait for her to finish with her tea.
God he wished she'd hurry up.
After the longest five minutes of his life, Mattie returned from the stove with a couple of steaming mugs. She set one down in front of Carson. "How many lumps of sugar would you like, dear?"
"I can help myself, thanks," Carson assured her, and to follow through with it he dropped three white cubes into the amber liquid and took a sip. It was surprisingly soothing, and he felt his headache begin to diminish almost instantly.
"This is really good Mattie – do you mind if I call you Mattie?"
"No, no, dear, not at all."
"Right. What was that stuff you put in the tea?"
"Hm?"
"The yellow –" he yawned "crushed leaf-looking stuff?"
"Oh! Just some herbs from the garden, hon. I grow 'em myself."
"Ah. That's –" another yawn escaped him, "great."
"Aw, it's nothing, really. Been raising 'em for years. How's your head feeling?"
"Better."
"Good! Now, ask me anything you want to know, and I'll be happy to fill you in, if I know the answer."
"Thanks." The word was a yawn.
A look of worry came over Mattie's face. "Hon? Are you okay? Are you tired? Do you want a room? There's a spare one right around the corner, with clean linen already on the bed."
"No. No, I'm fine." His eyelids were excruciatingly heavy all of a sudden. Carson closed them for a second.
All a nightmare. I've fallen asleep on the programming book at my desk again. When I open my eyes, it'll be 7:54, and I'll have to be at my 8:00 final in six minutes…
But Carson didn't open his eyes. That little motorcycle experience might have been a nightmare, but it had been too real for comfort. In fact he was still reeling from it. Maybe he'd skip the final, fail the class and not graduate at all, just to avoid graduation night…
Footsteps thumping downstairs caught his attention, and he kept his eyes closed with more determination than he'd started with. There weren't any stairs in the bedroom of his apartment…
He heard a whispered curse that sounded distinctly like a hiss. Oh god, not her…
"Mattie!"
"In here, Sahara, dear!"
The footsteps left the room for an adjoining one. Carson could still make out their voices, though they were muffled somewhat by the walls.
"Mattie," Sahara's voice was inconceivably patient, "I could have sworn I asked you to wake me at nine."
"Oh I know, hon, but I went up there and peeked into your room, and you know you were just so peaceful and I couldn't bring myself to wake you. You won't be in trouble with Viviane, will you?"
"Let's hope not. Why is he asleep? He slept almost the whole way over here."
"Well," there was undeniable guilt in Mattie's voice, "now don't be angry, dear, but I think I may have put a bit too much Ryebella in his tea?"
Sahara groaned softly. "How much, Mattie?"
"Just a pinch! It wasn't much at all, I drank a full mug myself and it didn't bother me a wink."
"But you're used to it, he isn't. He was completely intoxicated last night on cheap tequila."
"How much?"
"Not more than three shots."
How did she know that?
Carson heard Mattie tut-tut in the other room. Sahara laughed. The sound was captivating, sweet as a wind-chime. "Well, what do you expect from a guy like him?"
A guy like what? What was wrong with him?
"Anyway, we have to get going. Are you going to wake him up or will you let me do it?"
"Oh, Sahara, be nice to the poor boy. He's really a sweetheart."
"Exactly."
A moment later he was being shaken gently awake by Mattie. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Sahara, who had changed the red dress for a skin tight black leather biker's outfit but looked no less like a Victoria's Secret model for the switch. Keys dangled from her left hand; the helmet was tucked under her arm. Without the visor to distort them, her eyes were the color of blue-green sea mist. They were stunning, but Carson would have liked them better if they hadn't been hurling knives of impatience at him.
"Time to go, hon," Mattie's voice was quiet and coaxing – the same tone most people use with small children. "Sahara's going to take you to see Viviane and you can get this whole thing sorted out, alright?"
Carson didn't have time to answer her properly, however, because Sahara tossed an affectionate goodbye at Mattie and strode out the door without looking back. He wondered what she'd do to him if he dawdled; decided he didn't want to find out. Following her example, he said goodbye to Mattie and hurried outside.
He hadn't kept her waiting more than six seconds, but the Harley was already purring and her helmet was on. She was ready to go.
"Get on."
"Tell me what's going on."
Sahara turned her head to look at him and pushed her visor up. Exposed, her eyes caught every star in the milky way. When she spoke, her voice was soft and deadly as a viper. "Let's get something straight. I make the demands. You obey them. Now, let's try this again." Lowering the visor back over her face, she repeated, "Get on."
And because he was still drugged from the tea, or because he sensed that his best ally in dealing with Sahara O'Brian was complacency, or – most probably – because he was wary of unspoken consequences, Carson got on. Frustration was gnawing at him – he wanted answers. But there was nothing to do about it except wait.
The motorcycle revved and shot off into the night toward this mysterious Viviane and – Carson hoped – an explanation.