Failing Upward

Chapter 15 (part 3): Insect Bites

It was necessary. I had to go into the garden. The more exposure I had to Mica, the more control I could have over what happened to us. I knew they were worried, and I knew why. What else could I move with my mind, given time? If any of those with designs on this power waited too long, they wouldn't be able to get to me. I had to go to the garden— become stronger. We needed more time.

This was it. Sean understood, but he wouldn't go into the garden with me.

"You don't have to go with me either," I said to Sherlock. "You might be a distraction."

"Actually, who's to say that this isn't part of the process," Sean observed. "I've been through this myself, and don't get embarrassed, but I don't think getting, um, stimulated is just a by-product of the process. I think it's the point ."

"What the fuck does that mean?" I asked.

"Sex is the most basic and most complex part of life. It is life."

"Make love not war. Blah, blah, blah. Let's go before it gets too hot out," Sherlock said. "All I need is a sunburn."

Sean chuckled as I stood up and got the what I needed from the dresser and stuffed it in my pocket as nonchalantly as possible. Didn't work. Sherlock's face flushed and mine did too. Although my blush wasn't from embarrassment— more like lust.

Sean followed us as far as the back door, then watched us walk out. I took my time. Sherlock fidgeted beside me. I could see Glenda hanging out the laundry on the other side of the house, pretending not to see us and where we were going.

Side by side we walked down the worn path. A hazy morning with a subtle breeze cooling our skin. Our feet squished on the ground as we walked. Sounds from the farm fields carried up and over the hills in the still of the morning: tractor, a chickadee. Sherlock reached his hand out to mine. I thought of everything I had to lose. Days like this with the man I loved beside me. As we stepped to the entrance of the garden, I realized my cheeks were wet with tears. Part afraid and part hopeful.

He slapped his arm.

"Deer fly," he grumbled. "They always leave a big red welt on me after they bite." Sherlock dug at his arm. I could see his skin blister where the fly bit already.

The garden's fragrance seeped into me. Or rather, I welcomed it. Invited it.

Come in, come in .

The sun must have come up over the wall just then, because dew drops sparkled like diamond chips across the grass, on the leaves' edges, in the center of crimson petals. Instinctively, I spread my fingers for a rose. I snapped off a blossom, breaking its neck. I heard a cry.

But no...that was from me.

With my right hand, I brought the bloom to my face. Gently I twirled the flower between my thumb and forefinger, velvet on my cheek, my nose. My tears mingled with the prisms of dew. I felt Sherlock's eyes warm me. Slowly, hesitantly, I reached toward the snapped stem of the winding rose I'd plucked. I grasped its stem tightly in my palm. The thorny vine wound itself around my wrist. Once, twice, three times, then tightened, the barbs digging into my tanned flesh. My blood ran down my arm and dropped dark on the ground.

The familiar swoon began, but this time there was a distinct change. A clarity of purpose swelled through me as Sherlock's hand supported my elbow. I turned, and with a violent yank, broke the vine, driving the thorns deep into my skin.

My mouth found his. We fell to the ground, or maybe he pulled me. All was cloudy except Sherlock before me. All I could feel was his heat against mine. I wanted his tongue, his hands, his body ,and I told him with every atom in my body.