Seth ushered Aralese towards the Algonquin Hotel: a charming example of New York elegance that might also be vacant if God was giving handouts … at least, vacant of oddities. With traditions of hosting literary nobles and of keeping a cat that had free run of the place, the Algonquin’s famous foyers had even been featured in Ghostbusters. In bringing Aralese, Seth hoped for a moment’s respite. Now he wasn’t sure. The ornate Victorian, which had seemed inviting over the internet—before streets grew mouths that ate aircraft—now seemed equally ensnaring: its doors appearing too eager for unwary guests. The Maelstrom choked Manhattan with weather formations that were not clouds but rather the byproduct of that other realm. Having no desire to expose Aralese to untried rains or to smoke that was turning the air to soot, Seth hurried beneath the canopy. The doors to the 174-room lodge banged open like those of a ghost-town saloon. Aralese—looking fragile in her top, denim shorts, and leather-jacket—droned along. She’s in shock, Seth figured. He noticed the bruise at her temple and worried that she might also have a concussion. She needed medical attention, but he was all she had. The best he could do was get her off the streets and in someplace dry. He shut the doors behind them, flinching at the gunshot echo of lock bolts clicking into place. He followed Aralese into the lobby, wondering briefly if he shouldn’t start a conversation. But small talk? At a time like this? And he barely spoke French. He was more aware of that than ever. But wouldn’t that be better than allowing Aralese to withdraw inside her mind completely? She needed him. He had to keep her on the surface. As if to prove his point, he turned to her wandering naively down the foyer. “Aralese!” Even his whisper seemed revealing in the hungry silence. He raced over, taking her arm gently. She snatched it away and then the words were rolling out. All French. Too fast, too numerous for him to possibly make out what she was saying. She began fighting: shoving and striking repeatedly. A sharp blow lanced his brow; something hot and sticky trickled past his left eye. She’d opened him, but he paid no heed. He saw the terror in her eyes. She had the look of a woman who realizes she may have erred in following a strange man to a deserted hotel. “Aralese,” he whispered. She cried out. Such fear in her voice. His chest constricted around the rose of his heart, cutting itself on the thorns of his compassion for her. After several dodgy attempts, he managed to catch her wrists, bringing them together—with effort—between their bodies. “Aralese,” he repeated, gently as before. She was strong for her size—her dancer’s body lithe and toned. Despite her 5’2,” 100 lb. frame, her struggles were all the more fueled as a result of terror-induced hysteria. Seth believed he could hold her, but feared that in doing so he might hurt her. With chin tucked to her chest, Aralese braced both legs on the burgundy, gold, and jade speckled carpet. She jerked hard enough to pull them beneath an ornate arch that led deep into the foyer. “Aralese,” Seth attempted one last time. He pulled her arms from her sides, not to bring her close—one well-aimed kick and he wouldn’t be able to stand, let alone hold her—but with the intention of getting her to look into his eyes. If only she would, she would surely see he harbored no dishonorable intent for bringing her here. Aralese stilled. Seth readied himself. She could be feigning submission in order to bolt. Or to renew her attack. She had already managed to give him an impressive whop. He could feel blood trickling below the left side of his brow where she’d opened him. Aralese glanced at him. Her eyes were wild. Frightened. Doe-eyes beneath thick, long lashes. Gorgeous eyes. Even with her hair a tangled web in her face, mascara road-mapping her tears, she was a vision. When Seth witnessed her tearful surrender, he swore he’d return her to whatever happiness she sought even if it meant seeing her in the arms of another. He never wanted to see such misery on her face again. Aralese crumbled against the wall. Her legs buckled as she slid into a heap of misery. Full weight upon her ankles, she placed hands over her face and began to cry. “No,” Seth said, feeling more helpless than ever. “Aralese, ne pas. S’il vous plait.” He went to her in a gesture of goodwill. Formulating the phrase in his mind, he whispered, “Aralese, c’est d’accord.” It’s okay. Whether she meant to relieve pressure on her ankles or actively sought comfort, Aralese fell into him. The warmth of her body? The smell of her hair? A tropical rainstorm. Her tear-stained face—pressed in the juncture between his neck and shoulder—a gift from Heaven. He felt her chest hitch slightly. She wept—audibly, but quietly—arms against his. Holding his breath, he pulled her close. This was a dream. It had to be. Her hands clung to his shoulders. His body sang with joy. His heart cried in elation. And his mind chastened him for taking such pleasure in her vulnerability, but Aralese Jettier—the Aralese Jettier—had her arms around him. Seth understood that he was the only normalcy she had. Her world had spiraled out of control—from a place of sanity into one of madness—where colossal worms, giant mouths, and lunatic passengers were the norm. Seth didn’t know if this made him her lucky star, but his soul soared at the thought of getting to play the role of her protector. She needed medical attention, and he would not deny her that just for the pleasure of holding her this way. He had no right. Moving his hands to her jaw, he lifted her chin. A hush fell over her, no doubt in response to his gentle ministrations.
|