Catalyst

Chapter Three

"Could you please run that by me again?" she asked, clenching her hands together and resting them in her lap. If she just remained calm and took deep breaths this would all make sense. James would reveal this master joke. He thought her love of the paranormal was ridiculous—this must be his way of pulling a prank. He was going to say "Gotcha!" and Kara would pop out from behind a tree and they would both have a hearty and fulfilling laugh at her gullibility. It was the only explanation that made sense. The only explanation at all.

Her foot started tapping erratic rhythms on the floor, her whole body vibrating. The warning system in her chest was now switching between pleasant and painful like a flickering light bulb.

James pulled a chair over to her, sat down, and placed his hands on her knees. She stopped moving. Stopped thinking.

"A dragon," he repeated. He gave her a tilted smile but seemed to realize that, because of her short dress, he was touching her bare skin, and he slowly removed his palms, looking at them as if he didn't remember placing them there.

"I know it sounds crazy, and well, I'm obviously not a dragon right now, but I need you to believe me. And fast."

Phoebe crossed her arms to hide the tremors in her hands, half angry and half astonished that he would make fun of her this way.

"Jim, I know you think the books I read aren't worth the ink they're printed with, but this is too far. I used to wish things like that existed, used to pray for it every night and you know that. This is low." Chills continued to pass over her arms and sweat was gathering on the back of her neck. Her whole body felt sticky and at war with itself. She was at turns freezing and then burning with yes, good, good, premonitions that would then blaze too hot and turn into run, bad, run away. She was a tornado.

Phoebe shook her head from side to side, her curls flying over her eyes like the shadows of crows. She decided better safe than sorry and stood to leave. James' hand was searing hot like a branding iron as he leaned half-way off his chair, grabbing her arm.

A yelp squeaked out louder than she'd intended as she ripped her arm out of his grasp and rubbed at the skin there, which had turned pink. It felt like her forearm had been basting in an oven.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Phoebe." He stood and started to shake his hands as if they were wet and he was trying to dry them. His panicked gaze kept switching between her face and his hands. That had definitely just happened. He had burned her. What the hell was going on?

"What the hell is going on?" she yelled.

He froze and took a deep breath. She could see the wheels turning in his head, that look on his face he only wore when he was trying to come up with something half-true to say to adults.

"No," she said, "let me stop you right there. I... I don't know what just happened. I don't know what you're playing at. But this isn't fair, James. I know I entertained myself with stuff like this when I was a kid, but I got over it. You're totally screwed up if you think this is funny." She felt an ache in her sternum, like someone was pushing in on her ribs. He was poking fun at her in the only way that would ever really matter.

She had loved fairy tales and myths and bedtime stories about monsters. Magic. She devoured books where witches fell in love with vampires and fey people kidnapped hunky strangers. It wasn't just a hobby; it was something to escape to. James had once begged her to read an autobiography and she refused. Why would she want to read about something that actually happened? Something boring and average? The unnatural had always been a part of her. Something she'd been drawn to. James had told her she was childish and should grow up. That was the first real fight they'd ever had.