Hourglass (Hourglass 1)

The possibility of altering time kept circling my thoughts. Bringing back someone you loved from the dead. Wondering if even the idea flew in the face of the universe and tempted it to a crueler fate than ever.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, I fell asleep.

Chapter 24

The glass revolving door spins, faster and faster, bringing with it arctic air and the smell of pine. I watch as it detaches from the building, still spinning, transforming into a snow-covered sled drawn by horses as black as death. As quickly as it appears, it pitches over the side of the mountain, leaving nothing but the sounds of screams hanging in the air and the mustard-yellow smell of sulfur. Beside me stands a figure, a body with no face, only holes where eyes are supposed to be, replaced with burning coals.

“No! No!” I jerked upright, and the sweat gathered at the base of my spine went cold. Michael still sat beside me. I crawled into his lap, shaking furiously, too scared to be embarrassed. The electrical current returned. This time it was comforting instead of unsettling. Concentrating on breathing instead of gulping for air, I forced my gasping to subside to something manageable enough to allow me to form words.

“I’m sorry,” I managed to choke out. “I’m okay.”

“Liar.” Michael rocked me back and forth, consoling me. For once he didn’t seem to care how close we were. I knew I didn’t.

I rested my forehead on his shoulder. He rubbed my back in small circles as I concentrated on regulating my breathing. The grandfather clock in the corner sounded twice, echoing into the room.

In the silence that followed embarrassment replaced the fear.

“Don’t.”

“What?” I pressed my face into his chest, hiding.

“I can tell you’re self-conscious, and I don’t want you to be.” He lifted my chin. “I’m pretty sure you’ve had that dream before. What was it about?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, I just … I can’t.”

“Em?” My hair had come out of the elastic. He brushed it over my shoulder before resting his fingers on the back of my neck. “If you need to talk, I’m here to listen.”

My pain reflected back to me from the depths of his eyes. The emotional part of our connection grabbed me by the throat. I had the feeling he already knew what I was going to say.

“My parents. The day they died.”

He tucked me securely into the curve of his arm, and the electricity between us calmed to a subtle hum.

I took a deep breath, shuddering as I released it. “We were on vacation, a ski resort. I’d started seeing the rips a couple of months before we went—my parents didn’t know what to do. I think they wanted to get me out of town to see if things would stop.”

He was listening, watching me carefully, maybe wondering if I was going to break.

I wondered the same thing.

“We were hurrying to catch the shuttle bus to the expert run. I couldn’t find one of my ski poles. I told my mom to go on with my dad, that I was old enough to ride a shuttle by myself.” I winced as I remembered the tone of voice I’d used. “She’d been in overprotective mode ever since her only daughter started showing signs of losing her mind.”

“You don’t seem like the kind of girl who’d go for overprotective.” He took my hand in his.

“I hated it. But she wouldn’t leave without me. We were still arguing when we walked through the lobby. I wasn’t paying attention, and someone slammed into me. I dropped my backpack. Stuff went everywhere. My mom was frustrated, and I told her to go ahead. She did.”

Almost as if it was yesterday, I could feel the cold wind as the revolving door spun. I could see my mom stepping into it, her blonde hair blowing around her face, her expression somewhere between pity and disappointment.

“Best the authorities could figure was that they either hit a patch of ice or someone ran them off the road. The shuttle bus went over the side the mountain into a half-frozen lake.” My lips started to tremble. “Crashed through the ice. Took three days to recover all the bodies.”

Michael said nothing, just held my hand more tightly. I rested my cheek on his shoulder. But I didn’t stop talking.

“The last thing I said … The last thing I said to my mother … was that I didn’t need her. I told her I didn’t need her to hover, that I could take care of myself. I said I didn’t need her. I’ve never told anyone that. Not even Thomas.”

It had been too horrible to say out loud. Sharing it meant reliving it.

“But you loved them,” he said. “And they loved you.”

“I know.”