Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

began and the floor beneath her feet tilted with a sickening lurch. She staggered, fighting to keep her balance. The whole room began to shake. Tessa gave a strangled cry and reached for the wall to steady herself--but where her hand should have met the firm surface of the tapestry and the wall beneath, all she felt was a cool, moist ... nothing.
    Tessa, thrown backward by the push of some unseen force, crashed into her dresser and fell. Her whole room shook as though it were a dollhouse in the hands of a giant toddler. The floorboards rose and fell like piano keys as their nails shrieked. The room pitched to darkness as a violent, tearing noise shredded the air. Then, quiet.
    She was on the floor. The lights flickered on. Tessa let out a groan and eased herself up to a sitting position. Her shoulder was sore where she'd jammed it against the dresser, and she'd fallen pretty hard on her rear end; otherwise, she was okay.
    Tessa looked around. Everything was still, and except for some books fallen from her bookcase and a spill of papers from her desk, her room looked pretty normal.
    "What the--?" she whispered. "When was the last earthquake in Maine?"
    Then she realized she wasn't alone.
    A young man crouched on the floor beside her, gasping for breath and shaking. Tessa stared as he raised his head to look at her. Dark blond hair fell in coarse tangles across his forehead and reached to his shoulders. His eyes, an intense, startling golden brown, were ringed with dark lashes.
    Tessa was so surprised, her scream came out only as a strangled gasp. She scuttled backward, away from him, and scrambled to her feet. Her heart was pounding. "Okay, wake up," Tessa told herself. "Wake up."
    The guy stared at her. He was panting in deep, heaving breaths, as if he'd been running. He stood. He was tall, and dressed in a gray cloak and suede pants and boots; all were torn and muddy. His lean, tanned face was dirty too, and he had an ugly gash down one cheek.
    "You," he said, in a choked voice. He took an unsteady step toward her, then stopped and looked down, staring at his feet. He stared up at her again. "Sweet Jesu," he breathed. With that, he toppled forward, collapsing to the floor.
    "Hey!" Tessa took a step forward and stopped. The young man didn't move but lay with long arms and legs splayed out.
    "Hello?" Tessa said nervously, then repeated it a little louder, took a step closer and gasped. "Oh my God." Her thoughts were spinning in frantic circles. "Okay," she said, looking around. "We had an earthquake. We had an earthquake and a strange guy in weird clothes collapsed in my bedroom." She closed her eyes tight and shook her head. What was happening? This was way too real to be a dream. Even for her. And too strange for reality. She opened her eyes. There was still a guy on the floor.
    "Hey," she said again, in a voice that she hoped sounded tough, authoritative. But the young man didn't move. Tessa took another cautious step forward.
    "You're hurt," she said, forgetting caution and kneeling over the young man's body. This was no dream. Being hurt was real. "Are you okay?" Tessa shook his arm. He still didn't move. With an effort, she tugged at the dirty clothes and rolled him onto his back. A sudden memory of the CPR training she'd had the summer before came to her. "ABCs," she whispered to herself. Right. "Airway." Tessa reached out and gently moved his jaw to open his mouth. She knelt closer, swept her own hair out of the way impatiently and brought her ear close to his lips. Warm breath tickled her skin, and she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. "Breathing," she murmured. "Breathing is good." Circulation. She pressed two fingertips to the firm column of his neck, where a pulse beat in a fast but steady rhythm. "Okay, you're alive," breathed Tessa, with a sigh of relief. She sat back on her heels and looked at him. Really looked at him.
    He had a face of strong lines--clean, angled jaw and arrogantly sculpted nose. A deep, ragged scratch tore across one cheekbone, and a streak of dried blood was crusted on the middle of his forehead. His skin was tanned, and his tousled hair and eyebrows were touched with a paler color than the dark lashes that shadowed deep-set eyes. He smelled, but not really unpleasantly, Tessa realized, of musky sweat and campfires and something else ... horses?
    Good-looking despite the dirt. So good-looking, in fact, that if he hadn't been filthy, he'd hardly look real. Especially