“You know who I am,” he replied. “I’m yours.”
The cook expertly flipped a burger and pressed it down with his spatula. The meat sizzled and spluttered in the grease.
“Should I be frightened?” I asked.
“Why bother?” he replied. “It’ll all end the same.”
The cook slid a plate in front of me: a hot, juicy burger, shining greasily on an open-faced bun.
Only it wasn’t a burger at all. It was a grilled tarantula.
I gasped and looked up at the cook. It was Ben, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead. He winked and pointed his spatula to the grill, where six more huge spiders spluttered and sizzled away.
Horrified, I turned away … and came face-to-face with the man, his eyes as deep and intoxicating as ever … only now they stared out at me from a rotting skull.
“Kiss me,” he hissed. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move, and as the creature leaned toward me and unhinged its horrible mouth, I saw inside an endless swirling mass of inky black nothingness I knew would pull me closer and closer until I drowned inside.…
I bolted upright in bed and realized with horror that there was something clinging to my face. I clawed wildly at it and scratched away …
… a playing card.
“Ugh!” I groaned, tossing it aside.
So my dreamtime love was now the stuff of nightmares. Good. Better, really. I’d have more perspective that way.
But the nightmares didn’t last. Nor did my regular romantic fantasies come back. The two somehow morphed together. For the next two nights I was plagued by far more terrible dreams, dreams that were sticky with reality, but a terrible, disjointed reality, where nothing made sense, but it was all incredibly vivid.
I was Olivia. I was in a beautiful room that glowed like the sun. A circle of others were with me, all of them draped in clothing so bright that it hurt my eyes.
He was with me, holding my hand. He smiled … then blood started pouring out of his chest, his arms, his legs … gushing and running down his body, but he seemed to have no idea. He kept smiling, and he gave my hand a comforting squeeze. I screamed, but he didn’t seem to notice.
I looked around for help, but all I saw were the two decrepit, half-buried vials from my dad’s archaeological dig. A raven-haired woman with dancing black eyes picked up the vials and held them out to me, laughing wildly as a long cut opened up in her throat and blood began to flow. I turned away from the sight and came face-to-face with Giovanni, my love’s best friend.
“Giovanni!” I cried. “Help me! Help us!”
“Shh,” he said, a finger to his lips. “It’s better this way … it’s all for the best.”
I didn’t understand—what was for the best? I was desperate for answers, but he didn’t say a word. I didn’t even see the heavy object he picked up until it came barreling toward my head.
The next night was stranger and even more surreal. I was Anneline. It was my wedding day, and I walked down the aisle toward the man, grinning for all I was worth. I was almost at his side when I realized the man walking me down the aisle wasn’t my father, but Ben.
Actually, not Ben. He seemed like Ben, but he looked different. Broader. Taller? Julien. His name was Julien. He stopped me just before I reached my fiancé. Smiling down at me, he pulled out a long-stemmed rose … and pushed it gently through my dress, adding the littlest bit of pressure to pierce it into my heart.
I gasped as I felt the thorns slice my flesh and slide through my body.
“Julien … !”
He kept smiling, and steered me to the altar. No one seemed to notice the rose impaling me. The guests, the priests, my groom—everyone smiled peacefully as the ceremony continued and I struggled to breathe, blood now spreading across my white dress. As the priest spoke, Julien pulled out another rose.
“No,” I begged, but he didn’t listen. He studied me closely, then threaded this flower through my body, arranging it perfectly next to the other.
I stood there at the altar, gripping my bloodstained bouquet of white irises, looking desperately for help to everyone around me, but no one paid attention, not even when I hit the floor and faded into nothingness.…
It was terrible. In just a few nights I had gone from craving my dreams to dreading them. Even when I woke up, I couldn’t shake the gummy horror of the visions, and I started feeling like my regular life was the fantasy, and the gut-wrenching dreams were real life.
What was happening to me?
WHATEVER WAS HAPPENING, there was absolutely no way I could let myself fall asleep during the twelve-hour trip to Rio with Ben. He was already freaked out about the pictures—if he saw me flailing and crying in my sleep, he’d lose it. Or worse, the other dreams could come back—the ones so good I could feel every touch. I could only imagine what I looked like when I dreamed those. No way could I let Ben see that. I’d die.
I didn’t close my eyes during the trip, and I was exhausted by the time we landed. I followed Ben in a zombielike daze as we got our luggage, rented a Jeep, drove to the hotel, checked in, and split off to our separate rooms. The bed looked so good, but the people at GloboReach were expecting us, so I reluctantly changed and got ready to go.
Outside the hotel, I breathed in the salty air and let Rio bring me back to life. Its energy was palpable: The beach teemed with wealthy tourists in designer bikinis and sunglasses, and the wide streets swarmed with local musicians and people waiting eagerly for that night’s Samba Parade—the highlight of Carnival.
Ben drove the Jeep. I kicked back my seat, slipped off my shoes, and rested my feet on the dash, letting my limbs bask in the baking sun as we drove to the outpost.
There had been snow on the ground when we left Connecticut; here it was ninety degrees. Despite everything, I felt light and free in my cutoff shorts, white tank top, and sunglasses, liberated from the ten pounds of coats and sweaters I’d been wearing at home.
The GloboReach camp where my dad had last been seen was just outside one of the more notorious favelas, the slums outside the city. It wasn’t far from our hotel, but it was a world away. As we got closer, the streets grew narrow and unpaved, and I could almost feel the looming sense of violence my dad had told me was so rampant here. He’d said it was bizarre to see how close the favelas were to the decadence of Copacabana, but I didn’t really get it until I experienced it firsthand. I took out my camera and started snapping pictures, hoping one of my usual magazines would print them, so I could share the experience with the world.
When we arrived at the camp, we were met by a man who looked more like a college quarterback than a physician. He was tall and broad, and sported camouflage shorts, a T-shirt, and a shaved head.
“Clea Raymond,” he said as we got out of the car. “Welcome to GloboReach. I’m Dr. Prichard.” He pulled out his cell phone and added, “One moment.”
One moment? I looked curiously at Ben.
“Hello ma’am, Dr. Prichard here,” he said into the phone. “Yes, ma’am. She’s here. … Yes, with her friend. … Yes, that’s him. … You have my word. … Yes, of course.
” He held the phone out to me. “Your mom.”
Unbelievable. I took the phone. “Mom???”
“I know, you’re not a child. I just want you to know you don’t have to go through with this. If it’s too hard, there’s no shame in saying good-bye and going back to the hotel.”
“Mom … I’m fine.”
“I just worry, Clea.”
I rolled my eyes. “I want to do this, Mom. Look, I promise if it’s too hard I’ll leave. Okay?”
“Okay. Good. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
We clicked off, and I handed the phone back to Dr. Prichard, shaking off the mom moment. “Sorry about that,” I said.
“No need. Want me to show you around?”