“Ember?”
I open my eyes and turn my head. “Wally?” I manage, though my voice is hoarse.
His soft eyes mist, and he runs a hand through his grey hair. Where his face had been clean-shaven the last time I saw him, now it’s coated in thick stubble. “Girl, I never thought I’d see you again.” Scrambling to his feet, he rushes toward me and cups my cheeks before pressing his lips to my forehead.
I continue staring up at him, shock and confusion waging a war within me. “What are you doing here? Where am I? Am I back in Texas?” Surely Sullivan hadn’t—
“St. Vincent’s hospital in Dublin,” he interrupts. “They called me when you were admitted, and I was already in the country.”
“Where is Sullivan?”
His brow furrows. “Sullivan? Who is he?”
“The man that brought me here. Dark hair, tall—”
“You were found in the parking lot,” he replies, tone cautious. “By yourself.”
What in the actual shit-buckets. Did he seriously leave me in the parking lot? There’s no way I could have gotten away from Conary on my own, which means I definitely did not imagine him. Unless—my exhausted mind spins a new explanation—what if I imagined the whole thing?
“Did he hurt you?” Wally asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Huh? Who?”
“The man,” he replies, eyes taking on a murderous glint that is out of place on his otherwise kind, aging face.
“What? No.” My vision wavers, so I close my eyes a moment before opening them again. “Why were you already in the country?” I ask, trying—and failing—to sit up. My body is heavy, my limbs like lead. There is no way I imagined all of it, right? That would be insane even for my imagination, ghost writer (or put author) or not.
So if Sullivan really did save me, then where the hell is he now? Isn’t he supposed to—I don’t know—usher me into the afterlife?
Wally fidgets with the hat in his hands, a sign that he’s nervous about what he’s about to say. It’s a tick I noticed when I started confiding in him about my medical issues. Whenever I’d come back from an appointment, he’d remove his hat and begin toying with it before asking me what I’d learned. An adorable habit, really.
“When you left, we all expected you to come back—at least toward the end. But then you stopped answering your phone, and we—” His voice cracks. “We expected the worst. And the idea of you dying—alone—it was not something I wanted to think about. That in mind, I got on a plane and started by visiting the B&B you stayed at. When that didn’t pan out, I made it my mission to check every hospital and morgue in Dublin. I even contacted the police—or Garda as they’re called here.” He shakes his head sadly. “I thought you were dead.”
My chest tightens. That means all of it was real, I couldn’t have made it up. While I know it’s not my fault—I definitely didn’t ask to fall into another world—I cannot help but feel responsible for the pain I caused him. I try to lift my hand to touch him, but the movement proves near impossible. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to scare you.” Exhaustion tugs at me, and I honestly feel, if I succumb, I may never wake up again.
He nods, lips pursed as he tries not to cry. It breaks my heart. Reaching up, he wipes a stray tear from his wrinkled cheek. “Your things from the hotel? I have them.” He shuts his eyes, and when he re-opens them, they’re full of pain. “I told myself I wouldn’t ask, that it wasn’t my business. But I have to know.” Covering my hand with his, he squeezes gently. “Where were you? What happened to you? Your lip is split, your face bruised.”
“I—” How do I tell him where I was without making him think I’ve completely lost my mind? I can’t exactly say ‘I stumbled through a portal and into Faerie where I was kidnapped by an evil king, forced into marriage, nearly raped, and fell in love with his brother,’ now can I?
The only option I have is to do what I hate: lie. “I wanted a change of scenery, so I took a small bag of my things and jumped on a train.”
“A train,” he repeats.
“And a plane,” I reply quickly. “There are so many places to see, and I wanted to at least witness a fraction. As for my face, I got hot when I was headed back to the hotel and fell. Hit my face on the ground.”
“You left all of your things in your hotel,” he says cautiously. “And you thought they would keep it when your room was not paid for?”
“I had the hotel room on auto-pay.” That part is at least true.
“Your credit card was shut off, Ember. You missed too many payments.”
“Payments?” I scrunch my face. “I don’t understand. I’ve only been gone a few weeks. The bill shouldn’t even have been due yet.”
His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “No, girl, you’ve been gone a year.”
My mouth falls open, my eyes widening as I frantically shake my head. “No. That’s not possible. It’s only been weeks, Wally. I—” But then I remember what Rafferty said to me. Time moves slower in Faerie. What was weeks there—well—that’s why I didn’t die. Because my disease was moving far more slowly there than it does here.
Which explains how shitty I feel. This disease must be making up for lost time. And then it hits me. My stomach churns, my chest tightening as I realize that I will likely never leave this hospital.