Daire Meets Ever (The Immortals)

it—my head filled with the hypnotic rhythm of that red leather drum, my eyes swimming with the flash of crimson silk, gold coins, and a carefully veiled face revealing nothing more than a pair of intense, dark, kohl-rimmed eyes.
    “It’s a dude—a trannie!” Vane shoves in beside me, mesmerized by the sight of the caftan-clad male with his hands thrust high, golden cymbals clinking, body wildly writhing.
    But that’s all that Vane sees.
    He doesn’t see what I see.
    Doesn’t see the way everything stops.
    Doesn’t see the way the atmosphere changes—growing shimmery, hazy, like peering through carnival glass.
    Doesn’t see the way the glowing ones appear—hovering along the perimeter.
    Doesn’t see the way they beckon to me—beg me to join them.
    Only I can see that.
    Even after repeatedly blinking, trying to return the scene to normal, it’s no use. Not only are they still there, but now they’ve brought friends.
    Crows.
    Thousands and thousands of crows that fill up the square.
    Landing on the drummer, the transvestite belly dancer—soaring and swooping and settling wherever they please—turning the once-vibrant square into a field of dark beady eyes that relentlessly watch me.
    The glowing people creep forward—arms outstretched, fingers grasping—stomping the crows to a mess of black, bloodied bits.
    And there’s nothing I can do to stop their progression—nothing I can do to convince time to march forward again.
    So I do the only thing that I can—I run.
    Bolting through the crowd, pushing, screaming, shoving, shouting for everyone to get out of my way. Vaguely aware of Vane calling after me—his fingers grasping, pulling me close to his chest, urging me to stop, to turn, to not be afraid.
    My body sags in relief as I lift my face to meet his. Wondering how I’ll ever explain my sudden bout of craziness now that everything’s returned to normal again, only to gaze past his shoulder and find the crows replaced with something much worse—thousands of bloodied, severed heads hanging on spikes that fill up the square.
    Their gruesome mouths yawning into a terrible chorus that calls out my name—urging me to listen—to heed their warning—before it’s too late.
    One voice in particular rising above all the rest, its grisly battered face bearing an eerie resemblance to one in a crumpled old photo I know all too well.

Two
    The light zooms toward me, bright and unexpected—prompting me to squint, to cover my face with my hands, only to find that I can’t raise my arm—and when I struggle to sit, I fall back again.
    What the—?
    My limbs lie useless, stretched out to either side, and after lifting my head, trying to get a grip on my predicament, that’s when I discover that someone’s restrained me by tying me up.
    “She awakens!” a female voice shouts, bearing an accent so thick I can’t tell if her tone is one of fear or relief. “Miss Jennika—please, to come quickly! It is your daughter, Daire. She is up!”
    Jennika! So my mom’s in on this?
    I roll my head to the side, taking in blue color-washed walls, terra-cotta tiled floors, and the ornately painted octagonal table that serves as a convenient drop spot for my banged-up tin of Rosebud Salve, my silver iPod and earbuds, and the water-warped paperback I’ve been lugging around. Watching as an old woman wearing the traditional long, black, hooded djellaba rushes from the room that’s served as my home for over a month, returning with a frantic Jennika who drops down beside me, and brings her cool palm to my brow. Her familiar green eyes, nearly exact replicas of mine, appearing lost, set adrift, among her shock of bleached platinum hair and pale worried face.
    “Oh, Daire! Daire—you okay? I’ve been so worried about you! Are you in pain? Are you thirsty? Is there anything I can get you—anything I can do? Just tell me, and it’s yours!” She veers closer, peers at me anxiously, as her hands fret at the pillows just under my head.
    My lips are so cracked, throat so sore, tongue so parched, when I open my mouth to speak, direct the words at her, it comes out sounding garbled and senseless even to me.
    “Take your time,” Jennika coos, patting my shoulder and indulging me with an encouraging look. “You’ve been through a lot. There’s no need to rush it. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll stay for as long as it takes for you to feel better.”
    I swallow hard. Try my best to drum up some saliva to speed