He nods. “That's a good first step, Siren: admitting that you have a deeper problem.” To my surprise, he drops the subject and moves on to his next victim—er, patient.
The session lasts longer than usual today. Dr. Palmore addresses each of our personal “issues” in front of the group. Some days he fixates on one or two patients, and the rest are spared, but not today. He airs everyone's dirty laundry, leaving it hanging on the line for all to see.
I’m not paying any attention, to be honest. I’m thinking about what Dr. Palmore said, about my true motives behind conjuring Tiras. Do I really only conjure him for sex? Granted, it’s amazing sex, but I do love him—don’t I?
When group therapy comes to an end, it's almost dinner time. I'm so anxious that the mere thought of meat loaf makes me nauseous. I make excuses and get permission to eat a turkey sandwich in my room. I'm overjoyed when the orderly's key turns in the lock, sealing me in.
I take a deep breath, sit down on the bed, and wait at least twenty minutes before I try to conjure Tiras.
My hands don’t light up. He doesn’t come.
I scowl and try again. Still nothing.
“Tiras? Baby, are you there?” No response. No magic. No Tiras.
Something's wrong. Something's very, very wrong.
I stand up and start pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, just like Tiras did earlier…only I'm here, and he's not. Why is he not here?
I reach down inside myself, to my core, to where my magic sits, but nothing feels wrong in me. Whatever the problem is, it’s not with my magic.
Hours pass with no Tiras. I try meditation techniques I learned in therapy, I try straining, I try everything. I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m scared.
I don’t sleep. When Ettie comes with breakfast, my eyes hurt from crying all night, and my throat is raw. I’ve never been so lost, so afraid, and I’m starting to think he’s never coming back.
I move through the next week in a haze, unable to function. The words “fugue state” drift in one ear and out the other, and they shove more pills at me. I take them without question. What does it matter whether they affect my magic or not? Tiras isn’t coming back. He’s gone. I did something wrong. I took advantage of him, I didn’t appreciate what I had, and now he’s gone forever.
Of course, this doesn’t stop me from trying every night after lockdown to conjure him back.
It doesn’t stop me from failing, either.
On the sixth night—or is it the seventh?—I finally break.
I'm about to call for an orderly or a nurse or hell, I'll even take Dr. Palmore at this point, just get me someone who can help me get Tiras back. I'm shaking like a junkie, but it's not for lack of sex. It's for lack of his presence, his essence, his strength.
Just as I've reached the height of panic, as I'm about to scream for help from whoever will listen, a commotion outside grabs my attention.
A chorus of sirens—ambulance sirens, not the kind I'm named after—assaults my ears through the closed window. My room overlooks the front of the building, and despite my anxiety over Tiras's disappearance, or rather lack of appearance, my curiosity is piqued. It's odd timing, that's for sure. What mage has gotten him- or herself into enough trouble at this time of night to warrant an emergency ride here in an ambulance? Usually unstable mages like myself are admitted to a hospital wing for a proper diagnosis before they're brought here, and even then, the sirens aren't used.
The sound draws me in. I creep over to the window and peer through the bars at the scene in the driveway below.
My stomach drops below the floorboards, and my heart stops beating.
The crazy mage who's gotten himself committed to Palmore's Home for Wayward Mages in the middle of the night, the one that four orderlies are wrestling out of the ambulance, the one in handcuffs…is Tiras.
Tiras? He's here—as a patient? How? Did I conjure him in the wrong place somehow? Is that why he didn't show up here? But no; that makes no sense. If he'd appeared elsewhere, the authorities would have detained him and called Dr. Palmore to give me a dose of the serum. That's the easiest way to subdue a conjured being: incapacitate its mage.
Tiras bleeds from a head wound, and the orderlies don’t seem to care if they injure him further in their struggles. I try to dismiss him back to the Ether to heal. My hand won't glow, and he stays in the driveway. By this time, they've removed the handcuffs and wrangled him into a straitjacket. My heart breaks at the sight of my lover in restraints.
It's not supposed to be this way. Tiras isn’t human, but he's by no means an animal, and he shouldn't be treated like one. I pound on the glass between the bars and scream until I'm hoarse, but I know it's futile. No one down there can hear me, and even if they could, they wouldn't listen. I’d just get another dose.
But wait! Maybe that's the answer! Maybe if I cause enough of a fuss up here, cause a distraction, I can get them to set Tiras free. I mean, I'll have to subject myself to a serum injection, but if I can’t consciously dismiss him, maybe—just maybe—I can make Dr. Palmore dismiss him for me. He’ll be sent to the Ether, his body will heal, and he'll be okay.
Unfortunately, the only sure way to get the orderlies and nurses to swarm my room in the middle of the
