His heart skips a beat. He feels sweat budding on his temples. The dinner in his stomach is threatening to come back up.
Aris!
He runs around the room, going from body to body, looking at each face. No Aris. Relief washes through him.
He looks around at the room full of dead bodies and has a sudden need to get out. He rushes to the door and forces it open. He is outside. The cold air makes him feel better.
He leans against the worn wood siding of the house. He breaths in slowly, trying to calm himself. His mind is swarming with questions. What happened here? Where are Aris and Metis? Do they have anything to do with this? Who is Metis? Why is he always where trouble is? And who is he to Aris?
Thane needs to find out. But first he must report this. He brings up his wrist.
“Get me the nearest police,” he says to his watch.
“Where are we going?” Aris asks, her voice trembling.
Metis’s head is pounding. Trying to work through what he just experienced is like attempting to count all the stars in the sky with naked eyes—torturous and impossible. It is late, and they need rest.
“Let’s get some sleep,” he says.
“Your house or mine?”
“The Hotel of the Desert. We’re almost there.”
“Shouldn’t we leave Elara?”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Aris. Everyone who saw us is dead.”
“But you’re the Sandman.”
He stops in his tracks.
How did she find out?
“Seraphina told me. She wanted you to leave because you need to be protected. Absinthe needs to be protected. When were you going to tell me this?”
“Aris . . .”
“You don’t trust me.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“How does it not matter? You’re the Sandman, the one who gives the Dreamers Absinthe so they can remember their past.”
“I’m not the Sandman anymore.”
“Don’t lie to me, Metis.”
“I’m not lying.”
“First you lied to me about being a Dreamer and knowing Benja. Now, about being the Sandman. Is there any part of you that’s not a lie?”
He grips her shoulders. “I gave up being the Sandman to be with you! I had to choose between the past and the present. Being the Sandman or being Metis, the pianist. The Crone told me I couldn’t be both. And so, I chose.”
“Who’s the Crone?”
“She’s the maker of Absinthe. She’s been around since the beginning of the Four Cities. Like you, she was a scientist. Now, she exists inside a book—a consciousness without a body. She guides us to remember our pasts.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all this?” Her voice sounds hurt.
“We have so little time left. I just wanted to spend it not worrying about anyone but us. Just me and you. Can you understand that?”
He places his fingers on her chin, lifting it. He leans down and kisses her. The taste of her is intoxicating, making his head swim. He pulls her against his chest. He misses her. The woman she was. The woman she is. And every version of her in between.
The wind blows, intensifying the scent of dry sage and the earthiness of the desert. It’s getting colder by the minute. He tightens his arms around her. She fits here. This is where she belongs.
He has been trying not to think of time. The stealer of memories is creeping closer. Soon, his arms will be empty again. Can he handle it?
The people they left at Bodie’s house could not. They chose to be together in death. To be free of Tabula Rasa. Would he one day make that choice? Would Aris?
The image of their dead bodies comes back to him. Their figures lie on the floor, crumpled like inanimate objects. He is reminded of Benja’s dead body. Immobile and stiff. Skin cold and pale. He tries to shake it off. He does not want these memories to stay.
“We’re not far from the hotel,” he says. “Would you please let me take you there and hold you? I can’t stand it anymore. And I’m afraid . . .”
“Of what?” she whispers.
He doesn’t know the science of how memories work. What he knows is that a part of his brain has a fortress Tabula Rasa cannot touch. Behind its walls, his memories are strongest. It is the place he keeps his knowledge of music and the feel of Aris, if not every detail of her.
“I’m afraid we’ll keep that horrific memory from tonight forever,” he says. “I think our minds choose memories, even if we’re not aware of it. Things get impressed on a subconscious level.”
He picks up her hand and traces the veins to her palm.
“Like this spot where your green veins are most visible. Near the middle of your palm that dips in like a pool.”
He sighs.
“Sometimes I lie awake at night remembering this precise spot on your hand,” he says, “This is what my mind chose to remember. I don’t want to remember all those people lying dead on the floor in that house, and I hope I won’t.”
He pulls her close again. A spot on his jacket blooms warm with her tear. He kisses the top of her head and breaths in the lavender scent.
“All that matters is that I love you,” he says, “That’s what I want you to remember. The only thing I want you to keep from this night.”
Aris looks at the small house-like structure that belongs to the Hotel of the Desert. There are others like it in the vicinity. This one is farthest from the others and is located at the end of a quiet and dark path. It sits on four stilts off the uneven, rocky land. They walk up the five stairs to the porch. It is empty.
“We’ll have to break in,” Metis says.
The wall-sized glass door does not look difficult to force open. In a world where there is no theft, security is minimal. Metis fiddles with the door, and the latch turns. They walk in. The space is dark and silent. Their steps echo—two prowlers in the night. Around them shadowy shapes
