Envious Of Fire (Kissing With Teeth #2)

4. The Dream.

—?—

Kaleb stirs from his sleep with a gasp.

The gasp scatters through his small stone cell like whispers of ghosts. He catches his breath as the last image of his dream slowly fades—a pale face in a fire, peering down upon him, eyes like winter with the haze of snowfall passing over—that face as it slowly fades into the bricks of his cell, Kaleb slowly returning to reality once again, the dream letting go.

Six feet wide, twelve deep, featureless walls, a skinny table with a leather-bound book upon it across from his bed. Lantern with a faint glow still left, his only light other than what spills in from the hallway through the small glass window of his door.

This room is Kaleb’s home.

He often wonders about that word—home. It makes him think of another dream he sometimes has, a more distant one, where he imagines he was the proud, well-studied son of a man and woman he called Dad and Mom. They loved him, even if he felt at times drowned in his workload, in his endless studies, in his violin lessons, in his math clubs. He wanted a break, but they loved him too much to let him rest, he had to be the top of all his classes, had to be number one. In this other life, he often wondered what it was like to have friends, to attend birthday parties, to stay up too late, to not know questions on school exams. Makes him laugh, the absurdity of such a life.

That wasn’t ever his life, was it?

It’s just a second dream behind the first one with the pale face in the fire, the pale face with eyes like winter.

He didn’t really have parents either, right? This dream he used to call a memory, he has had it so many times, he wonders if it betrays him now. Details changing. Shifting like water in a sink. There was never a fire that burned his house down, right? No studies. No awards framed on the wall. No alarm clocks.

Kaleb stares up at the ceiling of his room, a spot way up in the corner that’s darker than the rest, and suddenly remembers another face from that imaginary life.

The face is like his own, same eyes, perhaps harder jawline, thinner eyebrows, twice the charisma he could ever hope for, a surprising softness when he smiles that indicates a keen ability to see and empathize with others’ suffering. This is the face of his imaginary older brother. His name is Kyle.

Kyle didn’t care if he studied, didn’t care if he attended all his violin lessons and his extracurriculars or finished all of his homework before bedtime. Kyle was the kind of brother who’d remind Kaleb that he was human, that he could be flawed, that there was nothing wrong with a moment of fun now and then, sitting on the edge of a bed playing a video game, drawing in a spiral notebook all matters of dragons and silly monsters. The more he thinks about his brother, their mom and dad, that house and the accolades and the stresses of studying, the more he believes it truly is just a dream. He was never born to that man and woman. Never kin to a kindhearted older brother. He was born in this cell. Six feet wide, twelve deep, featureless walls. This is where his life began. It is where it will someday end.

“1025,” comes a voice at the door.

Kaleb brings his feet to the cold floor, moves to the small window. “987?” Kaleb murmurs quietly. “What are you—?”

“Find me at dinner,” says 987, his face a blur through the glass. His voice is uncharacteristically stressed. Though Kaleb never asked his age, he guesses the guy is in his mid-twenties, at least ten years younger than him. “We need to talk. It’s big.”

Kaleb draws shapes on the glass, bored. “Chicken parm big?”

The scoff from 987 casts breath over the glass. “Way bigger, 1025. We’ll talk at dinner.”

“Okay. At the usual canteen?”

“Pipe room,” says 987. Kaleb makes a face. “Hey, I know, but we can’t risk being overheard. Gotta go.” He slips away.

Kaleb sits on his bed for the next hour, his mind growing a pair of hands that juggle many possibilities of what urgent news Blood 987 has for him. He tries to read another chapter from the book on his table, but his eyes feel strained in the waning lantern light, and he can’t seem to focus. Between 987 and the recurrence of the dream last night, his mind is chaos.

Maybe he died in the fire that took his home, the fire that ate the bodies of his parents before his eyes. Maybe he died and this is the Great After.

That pale face that looked down upon him with those pale, wintry eyes—that was the face of the angel who took him away, escorted his soul from his broken body to the Great After. This place is a place of processing. Someday, it will be his turn to go, and his soul will reunite with Mom, with Dad, with Kyle.

Hopefully this place isn’t Heaven or Hell.

A final destination, where he will remain forever.

If he is really lucky, it’s all a lie, and God and the Devil and everything in between is just made-up to keep humans in line. This place is no Great After, it’s merely a prison, and someday, he may know something outside of it.

All these realities sound wonderful, sound horrible, sound like nothing at all, except for maybe ideas from a storybook.

The door clicks. It’s a simple sound, but it is one that every resident here relishes with great and terrible delight. Kaleb puts a hand to his door and pushes it open freely. The others in his hall are already making their way. He keeps his head bowed, always moving aside for the more aggressive Bloods to go first. Kaleb learned years ago not to put up a fight or invite attention. The more invisible you can be in this place, the best. Keep your head down. Make your way with calm but focused intention. The greyish maze of halls gives way to several bigger chambers, such as the library, two commons, the shorter halls that lead to specific work areas where only certain designated Bloods are allowed, the main cafeteria and two smaller ones, with short round tables and metal chairs that creak when you sit in them, and something they call the gym, and the shower chambers.

Kaleb takes a left past the entrance to the kitchen and finds the less-used cafeteria, which many call the pipe room for the sewage pipes running across the wall. The stench is countered with plants and sprigs of lavender, but is present nonetheless, rendering the space uninviting for most. Blood 987 sits in the corner, foot bouncing in place. They all wear the same greyish outfits—long pants, short-sleeved shirt, leather slippers—but some Bloods modify their outfits for self-expression, such as with 987, who tore off the sleeves of his shirt, showing more of his slender sculpted arms and time spent in the gym, his warm olive complexion, his confidence and individuality. Upon seeing Kaleb, his foot bounces twice as fast as he flags him over. The other tables are empty. They should be alone until people start spilling over from the other more desirable eating areas.

Kaleb slides onto a chair, but before he can even speak, 987 is on him. “There’s a plan, 1025, a real fucking plan this time.”

Kaleb covers his nose, leans forward, listens.

As 987 describes everything, his bright eyes burn brighter with inspiration. He keeps running a hand through his short, dark curls of hair, strands falling in all directions. A few times, Kaleb’s mind wanders, lost in the details of 987’s energy and confusing explanations. This isn’t the first time 987 has become obsessed with an escape plan, but it’s certainly one of his more elaborate ones. How many more will Kaleb have to hear about before people like 987 stop trying to escape? All plans fall to pieces before they even begin. Kaleb takes part in none of them, thinking them all to be traps.

It’s a moment before Kaleb realizes 987 stopped talking. He clears his throat, shifts in the seat. “Oh.”

987 stares at him. “Oh? That’s all you gotta say?”

“I just … I mean …” Kaleb picks at his fingernails. “It’s just that the last time someone planned an escape …”

“ Shh! ” 987 flings his hands out to cover Kaleb’s mouth as he inspects the room with his eyes. Of course they’re still alone. He lowers his voice to nearly a squeak. “This isn’t like the last time. We have a real shot of getting outta here.”

There is little Kaleb can do to talk 987 out of it. Whenever he’s got his mind set, there’s no unsetting it. “But—”

“You don’t understand. Even 77 is part of it. 77! He’s got 100 wrapped around his finger. With the two of them, we can take on the upstairs. Plus the one who works in the infirmary. How many is that now? Six, with you and me and 303?”

“303 is in on this, too?” asks Kaleb, voice sinking.

“Hey, don’t worry, I know 303 is a handful, but he’s useful. And that means his crazy smart girlfriend 304 is also in. That makes seven. Come on, man, we all have to do this or it’ll fall apart. Power in numbers. I told 77 you were already onboard.”

Kaleb nearly flies from his seat, stunned. “But I’m not!”

987 hushes him again, grabs his sleeve and yanks him back down, then scoots close to him, face in front of Kaleb’s, breath reeking and soured with anxiety. “You know what people think of us high numbers. We are celebrities here. Never even visited the blood donation room upstairs, up that elevator. Haven’t you wondered what it looks like up there? I heard it’s fucking magical . Bright green walls. Some Bloods even work as nurses. Like, maybe ten or twenty of them. One of those nurses is in on it, too. We’re getting out, 1025, finally, out- out.” Kaleb tries to pull away, but 987 keeps pulling him closer. “Don’t be afraid, man, this plan is foolproof. We’ve been studying the schedules of the Blood nurses for months now, down to the second, man, it does not waver. You should be more excited!”

Kaleb’s voice is small and thin. “I feel like something bad is going to happen. To all of you. I don’t want to … to lose you.”

987 seems to find that funny. “Aww, you’ve grown attached to me, huh? Are we best friends now after all this time?” He slaps a hand onto Kaleb’s back, startling him. “Hey, we can still be best friends … out there in the real world. I run a bakery in San Diego. Well, my brother does, Matteo, hopefully still does after all these years, depending on a few things. You can work with us. I will get you a job. You can live with me and my big brother. He will be so relieved I’m back. I bet he misses me like crazy.” At once, 987 chokes up, eyes watery with emotion. He presses a fist to his lips, fights it back. “C-Can’t wait to see him again.”

Kaleb peers over his shoulder, hearing chatter in the halls outside. The other cafeterias are filling. It will be over an hour now until Kaleb can eat, considering how long and slowly the serving lines run when it’s this busy. He really wishes he had eaten first before meeting 987.

“You want to get out, don’t you?” asks 987. His face softens. “You haven’t … been out of this place since … since decades ago, huh? I forgot it’s been so long for you, longer than a lot of us.”

Kaleb’s stomach groans at him, restless. He remains silent.

“Lost count? Fuck, I forget about it sometimes. You’ve been here your whole life long. That’s gotta …” 987 chokes up again. “That’s gotta eat away at your soul, man. But hey, isn’t that all the more reason to get out? 77’s rooting for you. He roots for no one. Bring your violin,” he says suddenly, eyes brightening. “Actually, no, leave it. I’ll buy you a new one in the real world. I’ll buy you ten . You and me, out there living our best lives. Don’t let this place be your coffin. Fight your way out. I’m knocking on your door the night it’s happening. It’ll be one of these nights, my friend, maybe even tomorrow. Be ready.”

“987 …”

“ Be ready ,” he whispers, notices the first few faces coming into the pipe room, then slips from the table while wiping away his tears. Kaleb stays there awhile, staring at his friend’s back, his heart hammering with anxiety, picking at his fingernails.

He’s still thinking about it hours later when he’s back in his cell, sitting on the very edge of the bed, violin pulled out from underneath to tune the strings, now and then giving a stroke of his bow to test the notes, or a pizzicato pluck of his fingers. His mind is stuck on the urgent, almost childlike excitement in the eyes of his friend 987, how he heeds no danger, how he acts like those above them are merely some stuffy parents they’re trying to outsmart so they can sneak out into the night to party.

Do none of the others realize they are being kept here by gods and goddesses?

They will not be so easily outsmarted.

And any number of Bloods attempting an escape will be no match for even a single one of them upstairs. Kaleb doesn’t care that the brash and forceful 77 is leading the plan, nor that the hulking 100 is joining him. He remembers one time in the pipe room, perhaps a whole year ago, when a similar plan was being discussed, and 987 excitedly let slip his real name—a rule none of them are allowed to break—but either no one noticed or no one cared, because the name was never uttered again. Kaleb doesn’t even remember it. 987 will be his name, always.

Just as 1025 will be Kaleb’s name, forevermore.

The only ones who utter the name “Kaleb” are within his dreams now, his imaginary mother and father, his brother Kyle, their ghosts and no one else, no other set of lips, no breath.

There is a rustling at the door.

Kaleb lowers his violin. Is it 987 again? It can’t be. It’s too late for a visitor. Everyone should be in their cells, save for the few who are on specific nightly labor assignments.

Then the door clicks—another unexpected action—and in a swift, graceful movement, it opens.

Standing there is a woman from above. One of the goddesses. The one with half black, half white hair, woven together in a thick braid sweeping down her left shoulder, lying across her beautiful breasts, her body a sight that at once arrests Kaleb as his eyes fall upon it. His heart races for new reasons now, all of his insides curling with admiration the moment he sees her.

She stops moving suddenly, growing as still as a statue. It is amazing to Kaleb even now, how still the gods and goddesses can become when they so desire, at once made of wax, perfectly and beautifully immobile.

Kaleb panics, having forgotten himself. “S-Sorry.” He sets his violin aside, goes to his knees on the floor at once, lays his hands before him and lowers his head.

The violin bow drops off the bed, skitters along the floor, comes to rest at the woman’s feet.

Then she says: “Ugh, these formalities.”

Confused, Kaleb barely lifts his head. “Ma’am?”

She takes a step inside, crouches down, picks up the bow. “I don’t know the first thing about music.” She frowns. “Do you not remember my name? I remember yours.”

Kaleb stares at the floor. “Y-Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s Raya,” she says anyway. “That’s my name. You can use it. In fact, I’d like that.” At once, she sits on the end of the bed, still inspecting the bow as if it were an artifact of great interest. “I’m amazed such sounds can come from an odd stretch of horsehair. Is this horsehair? I don’t even know. Actually, I don’t care. The real reason I’m here is that I’m tired and annoyed.”

Still kneeling, still with his hands on the ground, Kaleb is utterly and absolutely and completely unsure how to behave. So the result is that he says nothing at all, his wide eyes glued to the floor where his hands, still pressed, begin to sweat.

“Would you like to hear why I’m annoyed? Actually, I will say it anyway. I am annoyed because, after being dragged along on an errand I did not wish to experience, I am then told I am not allowed to visit you anymore or utter your name.”

Kaleb finds that last part strange, frowning at the floor.

“Something to do with your safety. Or that I’m bothering you. Don’t you enjoy playing your violin? Would it really be so bad if I came here to listen to you turn horsehair into song and sadness? Fine, if I cannot call you Kaleb, then I will call you My Blood, or Blood 1025, or whatever it is the rules say. Oh, did I just break the rule, calling you Kaleb right now? Ah, I seem to have broken it yet again, and again, Kaleb, Kaleb, Kaleb.” She blows air through her lips and rolls her eyes. “Nonsense, all of this. By the way, do you enjoy being on the floor? Isn’t it filthy? You can sit next to me if you prefer. I hope you do.”

It takes an incredible amount of strength to peel his eyes off the ground, worrying whether her suggestion is in some way a test of his obedience. When he finally does, his eyes are first met with her legs, enclosed in black stockings, then to the hem of a black lace skirt. When he meets her eyes, he is surprised to find her inspecting her own fingernails, as if they’ve become the most interesting thing in the universe, the bow lying across her lap, forgotten. After a brief pause, he sits on the bed next to her, leaving enough space between them for a whole person.

She peers at him sideways. “Can we play a little game?”

Kaleb clears his throat. “Ma’am?”

“I want to pretend not to be me, and I want you to pretend not to be you.” He finds the request so unexpected, he parts his lips as if to laugh, but no sound comes out. “Can we do that?” she asks, returns her attention to her nails with a shrug. “I think it could be … maybe a healthy exercise for us both, perhaps.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I am not from here. I have no power nor title. Have no freedoms you believe I do, nor privilege. I am rather quite low as far as ranking goes.” She looks partway toward him. “That is who I will be. Who will you be? Tell me about him. And do not say ‘I am your blood’ or I’ll vomit. Be true.”

Kaleb may not have the confidence that most other Bloods have, but he has an imagination. It’s the only thing, he’s certain, that has kept his spirit alive for so long.

But the words that come out of his mouth betray him. “I’m … I’m a dedicated student … with two strict … but loving parents … and an older brother who teaches me how to live once in a while.” He grows more confident as he describes his life. “I am not from here, either. I am … not a Blood. I have no power, but I believe that in the future, I may have lots of power, if I keep studying, if I keep … being a good student … and a good son. As long as I keep both of my parents smiling, I will live a … a long and happy life.”

A moment passes between them.

Kaleb suddenly worries he said something wrong. He dares a glance at Raya. She is peering back at him thoughtfully.

Then she softly asks: “You’re not happy now?”

Kaleb tenses up. “Is this question for me, ma’am? Or for not-me?”

“Doesn’t matter, I already know the answer.” She takes the violin and bow, extends the instrument to him. “Will you play me a song? I hope you aren’t bothered that that was my ulterior motive. Yes, I had one, this is it, I need a song in my ears, yours and no one else’s.” She closes her eyes, bracing herself for it. “I want to know sadness again.”

Kaleb, violin and bow in hand, watches her for a moment. He finds her mesmerizing. Exotic. Unusual and surprising in all the best ways. She makes his heart leap and flutter. It is a drug. He has been blessed with seeing her twice. The first time, she was accompanied by the one called Tristan, called “the strange one” by so many in the cells, though Kaleb doesn’t find him as strange as he does reserved and careful, both qualities of which Kaleb finds respectable. Raya is as carefree as they come. She is a physical embodiment of freedom and power. She didn’t scare him at all the first time they met. She doesn’t scare him now, in this moment when they pretend to be other people—almost.

The first stroke of the violin surprises them both, as Kaleb didn’t even notice he lifted the instrument to his chin. Then, as the note weaves together its melody, floating in the air between them, he watches Raya’s face soften. He watches her lips curl with delight. He watches her head sway from side to side, as she picks up the rhythm of his emotional ballad.

When Kaleb is with the music, he feels invincible.

The violin is his weapon. With it, he captures even the ears and hearts of gods and goddesses.

This one sits on his bed and relishes in his every note. Where his mother might have criticized a note that came a hair too early, the goddess delights in the existence of that note at all. Where his father might have scribbled into a notebook for Kaleb to work on keeping tempo better, the goddess sways her immortally black-and-white braid of hair like a pendulum, and with every change of the melody, she basks with wonder.

At the end of the song, Raya’s eyes remain closed, and with barely a breath, she only says: “Another.”

Kaleb smiles—a genuine smile. He plays her another song.

Two songs turn into four. Then eight. A full concert with Kaleb as the lead violinist, playing one song after the next. He even improvises for a number of them, playing whatever comes to his heart, allowing the melodies to lead him. The creaking of his hallmates’ beds indicate that Raya is not his only audience, though in Kaleb’s perspective, she is the only one that matters.

In all the years he’s been here, he’s never been intimate with anyone. There were a few girls who found him cute, whispered things to their friends. One flirted with him, cornered him in the library, only to decide he was too strange to pursue, then suddenly all the girls kept their distance. Kaleb didn’t mind. He liked his solitude. Romance was too confusing, not worth the effort.

But with Raya, it feels so different.

It feels possible.

It’s upon beginning the ninth song that Raya turns to him and says, “In truth, that person I pretended to make up, the one that isn’t supposed to be me …” She sighs. “I was describing myself exactly. All of you humans down here revere me like some kind of higher power, but no, I am not, far from. I am quite low in the ranks of the House.”

Kaleb continues to play, his eyes upon her. “I am low, too.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “But you are Blood 1025. That is a high number.”

“And higher numbers are forgotten. We don’t even donate our blood. I wonder sometimes if I … even have a purpose.”

“Of course you do. It is to enrich my ears.”

She smiles.

He smiles back.

Her eyes descend to his chest, her eyebrows tugging together. “Your heart is beating so quickly, I can hear it through the—”

Kaleb’s bow slips, the note sharply cut off.

Their eyes meet each other’s. “—song,” she finishes.

Kaleb isn’t sure how to respond. So he apologizes in so tiny a voice, he’s not even sure it’s audible.

Raya seems to hear him perfectly. She crosses her legs the other way, peers down as she draws little circles in the air with her toe. “You could enrich so many others’ ears, too. There are so many people in the world who play violin, countless, but it’s with talent like yours that I wonder if any of them truly play. I hear such longing in your music. Like your melody touches a dark, ancient part of me … a part I’ve neglected to appreciate, a part I don’t fully remember.”

Kaleb’s eyes grow. “There are countless other violinists?”

She seems to find that funny, glancing back at him. “You are so cute. You behave like a sweet boy, yet you are … what? … thirty-seven years in age? Thirty-eight? Oh.” She notices the look in his eye. “Perhaps you’re not sure. That is okay. Age is just an arbitrary number that loses all context when you don’t have the sun or a rotating planet to count it by. I hardly can be bothered to give a thought to my own.”

Kaleb lowers the instrument, peers down at the strings, lost in his thoughts.

A pale hand appears on his thigh. Kaleb’s eyes lift and find hers. She sits next to him now, though he didn’t see her move.

“The world out there is competitive and terrible,” she says, “fighting each other for the first chair, for recognition and fame and ghastly acknowledgement. It is better in here, where you’ve already a number one fan. Me.” Kaleb is dazzled by her eyes. “I thought you might be nothing but a boy with a violin. There is so much more than sadness behind your eyes, I am learning.”

“I … I was describing myself, too.”

Raya’s eyes flash. “The person you made up?”

“I think it was … me. What remains of me, deep down, deep in the … the prison of my … m-my soul. A dream I keep there. A dream that I …” His voice begins to close up. “… that I have not told anyone before.” And it’s gone.

Raya gently brings a hand to his cheek.

Her skin is smooth and cold, but not unpleasant.

Kaleb reacts electrically, feeling as if the room has toppled over, delight raging and frothing inside of him. He turns to her.

“Perhaps we are both unable to imagine someone outside of ourselves,” she wonders aloud. “We are both trapped in … in a prison of our souls. I hope I still have a soul. I wonder at times if it left me, if I’d even notice. ‘A prison of our souls’ … I’m not sure whether you’re a musician or a poet. Perhaps both.”

“We should practice dreaming beyond what we are,” says Kaleb—then finds himself terrified at what he just dared utter.

But there is no outrage on Raya’s face. In fact, the words have inspired her. “Yes. We should practice such dreaming. Even if I’ll never be director of a domain or Lordess of a region.”

“I think you could be,” says Kaleb sweetly.

Raya peers back at him, pensive. “Play another one for me,” she says, “if you would.” Kaleb picks up the violin and obliges.