A BLADE BETWEEN OUR HEARTBEATS

The dream always started with the smell. Not sulfur or brimstone. Night-blooming jasmine, so thick and rotting-sweet it coated the back of her throat. Then came the sound. The wet, horrible tear of cartilage giving way beneath a blade. A man’s weight collapsing against her, dragging her down to the cold flagstone. He didn't fight. That was the part that made her stomach heave. His hands gripped her shoulders, slipping in his own blood, pulling her closer as his lungs filled with fluid. He was looking right at her. His eyes— Kai snapped awake, gagging. She pitched over the edge of the mattress, tangling her legs in the cheap polyester sheet, and dry-heaved over the scuffed hardwood floor. Nothing came up but acid. The window AC unit rattled, spitting lukewarm air into her tiny studio apartment. Outside, a garbage truck ground its gears in the alley, the screech of metal on metal dragging her fully back to a Tuesday morning in October. Kai wiped her mouth with the back of a trembling hand. Her t-shirt was plastered to her spine with cold sweat. She rubbed the heel of her hand hard against her sternum, right over her heart, trying to break up the tight, aching pressure sitting there. "Just a dream," she croaked. Her voice sounded like she’d swallowed glass. She rolled back onto the mattress, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. It never felt like a dream. It felt like a memory stuffed into the wrong skull. Ten minutes later, she was in the kitchen, shivering in a pair of oversized sweatpants. The overhead fluorescent bulb buzzed, casting a sickly yellow light over the peeling linoleum. She dumped coffee grounds into the filter without measuring, blindly reaching for the glass carafe she’d washed the night before. Her knuckles clipped the edge of the glass. The carafe tipped, sliding off the slick Formica counter. Kai didn't gasp. She didn't lunge. Her brain completely bypassed conscious thought. Her left foot pivoted outward, anchoring her center of gravity, while her right arm shot out in a blur. Her fingers snapped around the glass handle exactly an inch above the floor. She stayed frozen in a deep, perfect crouch, her breathing completely still. Slowly, the adrenaline spike faded, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache in her rotator cuff from the violent torque. She stood up, placing the carafe back on the counter with a heavy thud. Her hands started to shake. She gripped the edge of the sink, leaning her weight over it, squeezing her eyes shut. Normal people dropped things. Normal people shrieked, stepped back, and swept up glass. They didn't have the bone-deep muscle memory of a striking snake. She was twenty-four years old. She worked in a museum basement gluing old paper back together. Half the time, she tripped over her own shoelaces on the way to the subway. So why did her body know exactly how to balance for a kill? "Stop it," Kai muttered to the empty kitchen. She grabbed a mug, poured the coffee black, and ignored the way her hand trembled against the ceramic. By 9:00 AM, the smell of ammonia and dust in the St. Jude Museum’s sub-basement had settled her nerves. Kai hunched over her work table, peering through a magnifying lamp at a water-damaged 18th-century land deed. She had a scalpel in her right hand, carefully flaking away a patch of black mold. The heavy metal door at the end of the aisle groaned open. The aggressive, rhythmic click of high heels echoed against the concrete walls. "Did you sleep in your clothes?" Kai didn't look up. "Lilian, don't tap the glass. I’m holding a sharp object." Her sister stopped at the edge of the work table. Lilian smelled like expensive dry cleaning and anxiety. She was wearing a tailored navy blazer, her hair pulled back into a severe knot. "You look terrible," Lilian said, dropping a thick manila folder onto the edge of Kai’s desk. "The dark circles, Kai. You look like you have two black eyes." "Thanks. I feel great," Kai lied, carefully scraping another fleck of mold. "What do you want? PR doesn't come down to the crypt unless Higgins is throwing a tantrum." "I need you to look at Grandpa Elias’s chest," Lilian said, completely ignoring the question. Kai’s hand jerked. The scalpel gouged a millimeter into the parchment. She swore, dropping the tool and grabbing a pair of tweezers. "Lil, no. We talked about this," Kai said, not looking at her. "He was hoarding junk for twenty years before he died. I'm not spending my weekend sorting through his conspiracy theory journals." "It's not junk," Lilian insisted. Her voice was tight, dropping to a near-whisper. She leaned over the table, her hands flat on the metal. "Kai, the lock on the chest popped yesterday. By itself. I went into the attic and it was just... open. You need to come over and look at the stuff inside." "Then throw it out," Kai snapped, finally looking up. Lilian was chewing hard on the inside of her cheek. There was a weird, frantic energy behind her eyes that Kai had never seen before. Lilian was the composed one. The one who had her life together. "I can't throw it out," Lilian said, her fingers digging into the edge of the table. "Just... please. Come over tonight." "I can't." Kai scrubbed a hand over her face, exhausted. "Higgins just dumped the Vantane Estate intake on me. I’m going to be here until midnight checking manifests." Lilian froze. The color actually drained from her face. "The what?" "Vantane. Some massive private loan," Kai said, gesturing vaguely to the folder Lilian had brought down. "Wait, isn't that why you're down here?" Lilian looked down at the folder like it was covered in spiders. She swallowed, her throat clicking audibly. "Right. The Vantane loan. Yeah. I—I have to go. Just call me later. Please." Lilian turned and walked quickly down the aisle, her heels practically jogging against the concrete. Kai stared after her, her brow furrowed. She picked her scalpel back up, but the familiar quiet of the archives suddenly felt very, very small.