Shadowed (Unbound, Book 2)

Chapter Six

My dreams were tangled with nightmares.

I had been back at the Manor for two nights and couldn't clock more than two hours of sleep at one time. The nightmares woke me with a cold sweat and racing heart. The worst part was they were never the same: images of trees bleeding like they dripped sap until they sat in a sea of red; blue and green edged in swirls of violet swelled like water drowning me; forests consumed by walls of flames screamed with hatred and blazed forward to engulf me—char my body until nothing remained but ash. It amazed me that I could still form a coherent thought after the trauma—they felt so real.

Everyone continued to refuse to tell me about my accident. How could I separate my dreams from what was real if I couldn't remember? My unfamiliar surroundings hadn't jostled anything, though every so often I would feel close... so close. But I didn't know what I felt close to—it never lasted, fading before the connections snapped into place. It was like a word at the tip of my tongue. It felt like I knew it but didn't say whatever I wanted because I couldn't figure it out. Then, by the time I remembered the word, I forgot what I wanted to say because too long had passed since I wanted to use it.

I hadn't had the chance to see another doctor yet, either. Devland kept me on lockdown, especially when Calin came over. I should've been happy, I guessed, that Calin was permitted to visit, though I had done everything I could to make sure saying no wasn't an option. Maible had been right: I was stubborn and unless Devland wanted to explain to me his problem with Calin to me—whatever he feared Calin could reveal—Devland would not keep us from visiting. Besides, if the therapist I was getting ready to see signed off on my stability—which was their polite way of saying I needed my sanity confirmed by a professional—I would be back in class by Monday. In three days I could escape lockdown and see whoever whenever I wanted.

It was almost as exciting as the prospect of getting my memory back.

"Are you ready to go?" Devland asked, leaning against the doorframe of my dressing room in yet another custom-tailored suit, this time dark grey rather than light.

I sat at the vanity table and applied blusher so I wouldn't appear so frail, thankful my memories for its application had remained intact. Everything about the day-to-day of things remained clear. I knew how to apply makeup, groom myself, eat, talk. The only thing I hadn't been able to see if what I thought I knew how to do was correct was research how my mother died or what happened to cause my memory loss. Devland had taken away my computer, citing the fact that I couldn't look anything up to jog my memory. Doctor's orders.

Raising my eyebrow, I looked at Devland through the refection in the mirror. "Calin's taking me."

He stood up straight and frowned. "I don't think so."

"What? Why?" My hand paused with the brush halfway to my cheek, and I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. Slowly, carefully, I set the brush down and turned to face him. "Why can't Calin take me to the therapist? It's not like he'll be sitting in."

"I'm taking you."

"Why? You can't sit in either."

"Nora, this is your first session. We don't know what to expect. I am your father and if anything happens, I want to be there."

"Nothing will happen." Paranoid much? I rolled my eyes. At least he hadn't said it was his obligation to be there.

"We don't know that," he said.

"I know that." I sighed and returned to applying the last of my make-up, which was so much easier now that I was wearing the contacts I'd found in my bathroom. "If I haven't remembered anything by being back in the Manor, I doubt a shrink is going to help open the dam blocking my memories."

"You might remember something once you start talking."

"Doubtful."

"Pardon me?"

I stood, finished with my make-up. I looked to the racks of clothes pointedly. "Do you mind? I have to get dressed."

"What?" He looked around. His gaze narrowed slightly—just for a moment—to scrutinize me, and then he nodded. "Your appointment is scheduled for ten. Meet me downstairs at nine-thirty."

"Fine."

I watched him leave and then sat back down. I was already dressed under my ankle-length robe but had worn it to avoid smearing makeup on my clothes. If I'd learned anything new since being back at the Manor, it was that I was a complete klutz. The realization came the moment I first understood I already knew about makeup because an entire bottle of foundation had been knocked off the table, staining the seat of my pants. The hilarity of the moment had been cemented with humiliation when Calin had chosen that moment to appear.

My embarrassment was lessoned only by the look of horror on his face before he realized it wasn't some monthly occurrence that was seriously messed up, and then it was my turn to laugh.

Getting up, I discarded my robe and walked back to my bedroom. I still had another half hour to kill before meeting Devland downstairs. I grabbed my three-subject notebook and sat at the built-in desk. The first section was blank—a camouflage to hide the books true purpose—but when I opened to the middle section, the pages were just over half full. After so many jumbled images in my dreams that didn't make sense when I woke up, I was afraid I'd forget. What if I missed something important?

So I drew my nightmares, cataloguing them for future reference. Underneath each picture I had a blurb, sometimes whole passages, to record how I'd felt when I'd dreamt it. It was all in the details, right? Sooner or later, something was bound to make sense. Already the project had provided invaluable information about myself: I loved to draw.

I, Noreena Dwyer, was a closet artist. Once I remembered that, I remembered how I'd felt holding a paintbrush, mixing colors, the victory and sense of accomplishment I felt after I completed project. The actual projects remained elusive. Was I any good? I couldn't say, but when I thought about art, and particularly painting, I felt a sense of pride.

Before the images faded from my mind, I quickly drew outlines for the dreams I'd woken from this morning, vowing to finish after getting my head shrunk. Then I hid my notebook between the mattresses of my bed again. I didn't know why. I didn't want Devland to see the pictures, and I knew I'd have to carry it with me when I was allowed to go back to school. It was hard enough to deny Miss Rose entry to my rooms when I was home; she'd no doubt be in them while I was gone. Especially when the timeframes of my absences were defined by school hours rather than a clocked hour that someone was getting paid to spend with me.

I pushed the book in as far to the middle as I could and then straightened. I'd wasted too much time on makeup thinking Calin would be the one to take me to the doctor and now I was annoyed that I hadn't made my book a priority. What if I forgot everything again? What if talking about things triggered some sort of set-back and I reverted back to not even knowing my name? Then I wouldn't even know the book of pictures was there to look for, let alone understand what the images meant if I did find it.

But... what if talking helped me to remember?

I grabbed my jacket and purse before I could scare myself further. The risk was worth it because, let's face it, I really didn't have much to lose. How terrible was it that my entire access to memories—to personal data—could be summed up in five minutes or less? Yes, the risk of losing what I knew now to chance learning what I knew then was worth it. Definitely. Even if I had to go with Devland as my escort.