I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up.

I sit in the back of the class struggling to keep my face neutral as tsunami warnings blare inside my head. There's nowhere to run as a twenty-foot wave barrels toward me, promising to sweep me up and drag me straight to the bottom of the sea if I make one wrong move.

I could keep myself from the truth and assume the resemblance was a coincidence back when I didn't know her name. I'm not so stupid that I could miss it now. Red hair, blue eyes, a flower. An eager flower I woke up.

Was she adopted? Or did her father cheat on that blonde woman she thinks is her birth mother? Either way, she doesn't know. I would have sensed something about it in her memories, but there was nothing. Did her mother abandon her even more fully than she abandoned Violette?

Violette, at least, has an idea that she is something other than human. She hasn't said it outright, but I'm sure she's met her mother in a time she could remember. On the other hand, Blanc's increasingly desperate and confused texts demonstrate how little she understands what she is or what's happening to her. All she knows is I'm the catalyst.

Taking a deep breath, focusing this time, I try to send her a thought again. I can feel the place where the message could slot in, a space on a shelf where the book belongs, but when I try to squeeze it in it just won't fit.

At least I can still hear her, faded as her voice is, and there's no malice in it. Just obsession. But how am I supposed to deal with that if fucking her just makes her worse, and I can't change any of her feelings?

With a repressed groan, I put my face in my hands. Violette could help me if I hadn't lied to her. What was I thinking? If I thought she'd be upset when I just wanted to fuck someone like her mom, what's she going to feel when it's actually her half-sister on the bad side?

"Oran, do you need a moment?" Blanc's stopped class to check on me. Did I come on too strong? she wonders in a wispy voice I can hardly grasp.

Apparently, the groan was less repressed than I thought it was. People are looking at me, thinking What's wrong with themhimthatweirdo?

I realize I'm sweating. Of course I'm sweating! None of them get it!

I stand up, shake my head, say, "Sorry, feeling sick," and flee the room.

* * *

For the next ten minutes, I hide out in the only single stall bathroom in the building, pacing back and forth like a caged animal as I try to work the anxiety out. I can fix this. I can sort it out somehow. Telling Violette is the absolute nuclear option, but at least I have it. Though, can't I solve it before going that far?

I stare into the mirror over the sink, press my fingertips into the flesh of my cheeks. She'd had sex before. What's so special about me that I was the one to trigger her inner addict?

As an answer, my memory serves up the lights that flowed and sparked out of my eyes in Violette's painting.

She really must be feeding on whatever energy I put out...

God, what if her body has turned as intoxicating as Violette's? I'll have to be careful not to find out. We're going to have our hotel date, no matter what. Freezing her out is not an option. Just imagine the way her obsession could turn nasty if I refuse her. She's a smart woman; what's to stop her from trying to smear my name? From our texts, I have evidence that our relationship was consensual that would hurt her more, but she could damage me on the way out. Having the eyes of authority figures on me is the worst.

Besides, I'd feel like shit if I got her fired. She doesn't deserve that. Call me deluded for having that as my limit if you want--I know I'm victimizing the people I manipulate, but that doesn't mean I want to blow up their lives. There has to be something between me and your garden-variety monster, or what's the point?

Nausea crashes over me like the promised tsunami has finally hit. But nobody comes to take me in their arms and tell me it's all right, that I'm not that bad, that I'm different than what I least want to become.

Have to do every goddamn thing myself.

* * *

In order not to worry Blanc too much, I return to class with my poker face firmly affixed. I radiate normal waves as best I can when I reenter. Nobody cares much. She's the only one who's entirely unaffected, so she meets my eyes with some concern. For her sake, I give a half-hearted smile.

Was it because of how I look today? It must've been, she thinks with a note of giddiness. She's really feeling herself. Great.

It's convenient for her to think that, so I sit with my mouth shut. What can I do, anyway? Make her think otherwise? Not anymore.

She fantasizes about how into her I am while I sweat my way through the rest of class, running over scenarios for the coming afternoon over and over in my head.

* * *

My second class is absolute hell, but freaking out won't do any good, so I go and participate as best I can. Then I have just one more, Geography, the one that runs until 4:45. I'm starting to get antsy when Blanc texts me at 3:30 with a location and room number, so I ditch class right before it starts.

When I get there, it's a motel, not a hotel, about twenty minutes away from the center of town. Not a terrible place, but not exactly classy either. Better this way. I can park right in front of the room and be at the door in seconds.

Before getting out of the car, I pull out my phone and message Violette.

That done, I lock the screen and slide it into my back pocket. I hope she sees it when she gets home.

Once out of the car, I take a deep breath, walk to the door, and rap with the back of my knuckles against the faded red wood.

Blanc's fully dressed when she opens the door, though her cheeks are flushed and the air that flows out past her smells like sex, like she's been masturbating while she waited. Eagerly, she looks me up and down.

"Bet you could hardly wait," she says, though I can still sense her uncertainty underneath the statement. 'Sexy woman you can't resist' is not a role she's used to playing. In some ways, she reminds me of a teen girl more than Violette does. There's a distinct shyness to the way she puts her hand on her hip and cocks it for me.

I don't say anything. She does resemble Violette, now that I really study her. The shape of her face, if nothing else. The eye color, though not the shape. What else? Is it her nose? Her cheeks? Her skin tone? Her aura?

"What, is it too much?" she asks uncertainly. I shake my head and smile, slide past her into the room.

"Nah, you look great," I say, aware of how her eyes and thoughts have followed me. She's wondering what I'll do to her first. "But it was surprising to see it at school. Everyone talked like you'd been body snatched."

"They did?" That makes her hesitate. "Are you mad?" She draws close to me and takes a hold of both sides of the unzipped hoodie I'm wearing. She's my height in those heels, so our faces are close.

"You're usually so conservative. Didn't you think people would freak?"

"No, I mean, I'm an adult, I can dress how I like. As long as it's not inappropriate."

"That cut is pretty close." I nod down at her cleavage and she glances away with a blush.

"I wanted you to see them."

"And I did, but so did everyone else in the building, y'know?"

"You are mad," she says, sounding a little scared.

"Not mad, just worried you're going to get in trouble, babe," I try to say as soothingly as I can. I put my hands on her shoulders, touch the bare skin exposed by her dress. Maybe I can influence her if we're skin-to-skin. Works with Jett.

"I don't care! I need you, the rest of it doesn't matter. I'm sorry I cheated on you." She pulls me close and kisses me while I try to force Calm down! into the overstuffed bookshelf of her thoughts. Through her lips, through her skin, wherever I can touch.

We're both panting for different reasons--well, some of the same reasons--when we part. She doesn't seem calmed; I can feel her breathing hard from where her breasts are pushed into my chest. All that exertion for nothing. I wipe at my mouth and find red lipstick smeared on my hand.

"I'm not mad," I reiterate once I've gathered myself. I speak very carefully. "We weren't exclusive, so it's not cheating. You can fuck anyone you want."

"I know, but... I want you. After I have you, I feel amazing." She practically moans the last word. Her hips make themselves known against mine. Oh boy.

Will having sex with her make this worse? That's likely. But there's also a good chance I could find an opening when her walls are down and get back in her head before it shuts me out completely. Nothing else has worked. Sleeping with her one more time can't make her that much more of a whirlwind.

If it doesn't work, I'll call Violette and see if she can get me out of my stupid mess. If that happens, I really, really, really hope she'll forgive me for lying to her.

"Come on," I say, taking her by the hands. "I do like the dress."

"Oran!"

She's so happy, a perfect trembling kitten as I guide her to the bed, where the well-worn sheets are mussed and the smell of her is strong. I remember how normal she seemed the first time we had sex, just a woman in her mid-twenties with a nice body tucked neatly away under rayon and nylon. Today, as she lays back on the pillows with her red hair spreading in waves underneath her, she seems downright rare and electric.

I touch her face, place my thumb at the corner of her mouth where her lipstick has smudged. I'm sure she had blemishes before, normal skin problems, but now she's as smooth as porcelain, like her lust has polished a layer off of her. Did I really trigger this just by fucking her a few times?

In response to my gaze, Blanc draws the shoulders of her dress down, and I help the top the rest of the way, down to her waist. Her pushup bra is dark red lace, a similar tone to her hair, and at least the freckles on the tops of her breasts have survived the perfecting of her skin.

They're still not as good as Violette's, I think. Nobody's can compare to hers.

"What're you smiling about?" she asks. They must want to touch them, since they're staring so much, maybe they'll put their dick there, that would be dirty, or they could suck on them, or...

Honestly. Is this second puberty but for girls with flower names? It's like she's a cup that's been overfilled to just over the brim, and while surface tension held her for a few seconds, now desire is spilling out of her in pink-tasting waves. Her thoughts are quietly raucous; she wants me to fuck her in a hundred different ways, and she doesn't know how to ask for even one. If I wasn't so worried about her ruining my life, the eager way she fumbles to take off her bra would be cute.

"Shh, I've got it," I say as I reach behind her and unhook it for her. Once it's discarded, I take her breasts in my hands and massage them, tug her nipples to points and enjoy how they bounce back when I let go--inferior to Violette's or not, they're still tits.

"God, you make that feel so good," she groans.

"I think this is all you," I tell her honestly.

"But you do make me feel so sexy."

It's hard not to laugh at that. Yeah, yeah, too sexy. Could you actually stop being quite so sexy, please? Normal Christy Blanc was fine. Pretty good at teaching British literature. I had no complaints.

She looks at me expectantly. What are they waiting for?

With a feeling of apprehension, I reach into my jeans' pocket for one of the condoms I shoved in there when I left the house.

"Oh, you don't need that," she protests. "I like it raw," she echoes in the same voice I said it to her weeks ago. Past Oran, you are a fuckboi and I hate you.

"I'm not mad you slept with someone else, but I'm definitely wrapping up after you did," I say firmly. She blanches guiltily, like I hoped she would, and nods. No need to tell her I'm worried she's actually some sort of creature who feeds on my seed in particular.

"You should be careful," I warn as push my jeans down. If I can't influence her mentally, at least I can play on her unearned devotion to me.

"I'll keep myself clean for you, promise," she hurries to reply. No, not for me! I want to insist, but I can tell that one won't work. I put the condom on without further comment, even when she pouts.

Next, she tries to wriggle her dress down over her hips, but I stop her. "Leave it, it's sexy. Just take the stockings off."

No questioning from her there. As long as my attention's on her, she's agreeable.

I kneel on the bed next to her and focus on her breasts while she pulls her stockings out from under her dress. It's unlikely that she's gained the sort of power Violette has when she's only just started blooming, but even a small amount could be dangerous, couldn't it? Best to keep her covered and my eyes away. There's only one girl I want to be enthralled by.

"Please," she says as she settles back against the bed, legs bare and parted just a few inches. The look on her face tells me exactly how she's feeling between her thighs. Empty, pulsing with need, unfulfilled. Poor thing. Maybe this could all work out in the end if Violette doesn't mind? She's not trying to be bad, she's just desperate in a way she's never been before.

Look, Violette, I found you a real sibling! She's hot, right? I imagine saying. No, even the image of Violette I keep in my heart is shaking her head in disappointment. I still lied and messed with something I didn't understand.

Best to try to subdue Blanc. Violette never finding out about my stupid choices would be the ideal outcome.

Not without some trepidation, I move between her legs. We've only fucked in her office before this (why waste a perfectly good secluded room?) so such a basic position feels strangely new. Not to mention the new gloss on her body.

I put my hand on top of her stomach and keep her dress in place as I use my other hand to steady myself. It's easier than ever to find her entrance and push inside her, like there's a magnetism that wasn't there before. Once our bodies are together, or as close as they can be with the condom between us, I let out a small sigh of relief. Now I can just fuck her without worrying.

Her sigh of relief is even more dramatic than mine. "Godddd, that's better already," she groans. She cups her breasts and strokes at her nipples like she's self-soothing by playing with herself.

Guess the condom doesn't stop her from feeling whatever satisfaction I can offer her. I start thrusting, and she immediately twists her face to the side and lets out a little squeal, confirming that. Her fingers just tug harder at her chest; she likes that I'm watching. I match her enthusiasm, hoping that I can fuck her into such a state that her mind turns to jelly.

My body's basically on autopilot as I try to crack her like open. She doesn't seem to mind, mewls like I'm the best lover she's ever had, privately thinks that I am. Normally, I'd enjoy that, but now it just makes me grit my teeth. Pushing my fingers into her hair, I grip her scalp and kiss her, hoping that some point of physical contact will be enough.

She cries for me to pull her hair harder, and I admit I do it partially out of annoyance in response. It's not like she minds. Rather, she arcs and pulses around my cock in clear delight. At least one of us is having a great time! Must be nice!

Her body does feel good. A normal amount of good, which is honestly something of a relief. I'm not sure I could escape her if she felt as good as Violette does.

After a few more futile attempts to influence her, I let go of her hair and take a hold of her hips. I know she wants me to fuck her into oblivion. Once she orgasms, she'll have some amount of down time, surely.

"You're gonna cum for me, right, babe?" I say as I squeeze her thighs.

"I could right now, I'm so, so so close, so much." She babbles and strokes her hands all over herself, touching the many overheated points that I've apparently lit up for her. Violette does the same thing when she's close.

God. Thinking of her is what makes me cum. Sorry, Chrysanthemum. Judging by the noises she's making, she doesn't mind.

When she goes limp, I press my forehead against hers and pray. They're close but... No. No, they don't fit. I can see where the thoughts could go! I feel like I'm going crazy, the spot is right there.

In a moment of frustration, I wrap my hands around her throat.

Not hard. But enough. I press down on her carotid artery. Blanc's eyes open, then widen, and she squirms just an inch.

"Shh, it'll feel good," I promise.

She believes me.

There!

The sustained pressure tricks her brain into thinking something's wrong with her blood. She wavers for a moment before her eyes roll up. When her consciousness turns blurry, I throw myself at her walls as hard as I can.

Too hard. She doesn't need to pull me in like Violette--I do it myself. At least I can feel my hands going limp around her neck as I fall face-first into her mind.

* * *

The sensation of falling without a parachute lingers, until I eventually open my eyes and find myself on solid ground.

Violette's mind was as black as pitch, even when the visions started, but Blanc hasn't shut herself off to light so completely yet. I find myself in a version of the contemporary library I pictured her mind to be, though the bright and friendly entrance is now shaded by night. Just a few bulbs remain burning to light the front desk and the stacks that stretch on into dimness.

There's no one here, not Blanc or any other ghosts. Staff, I guess, librarians; you might expect those. It reminds me of the university library when it's almost closing time, but even more still. No one is here to turn off the lights that someone forgot. I don't think anyone has been here for a long time, judging by the layer of dust and grime on everything.

I brace myself for something to try to claim me, tear me apart, like in Violette's head, but nothing comes. After a few minutes, I unclench and decide to explore. Who knows how long I can stay in her mind. Need to find a place to shelve my ideas.

There's a high-pitched sound, then, though I'm not sure from what direction, or even what it was. Spinning to look for the source doesn't do me any good. Everything remains quiet.

"Christy?" I try to say, but it comes out muddled, like I'm gurgling bubbles underwater.

Fine. Don't let me talk. With an irritated shrug, I decide to jump the front desk and rummage around in the staff office. That's where I'd found the memories of her parents, after all.

But when I push open the wooden door that keeps the staff area from the patrons, the room inside isn't an office or a place for sorting books. It's a mouth.

I don't know how to explain it better than that. Hot breath pours out of the dark red room, lit by a single light that hangs down like a uvula. Before I can react, the doorway closes down on my arm with teeth.

It hurts, but the only sound I can make is a syrupy yelp. The door and I struggle for a moment, and the room it's attached to seems to swell out toward me, like a boil. I press my foot against the bulging wall and yank until I manage to wrench my arm back. The room bounces back then, the curve in its walls dispersing like it popped, until it's nothing more than a normal set of walls and a door once more.

With a wince, I examine my arm. The skin of it is charred, or perhaps melted, but the pain has already faded. Somehow, that's not comforting.

Whatever; Violette did worse, and this is not my real body. I spit at the door, turn away from it. Somewhere else will have what I need.

It's just... the shelves are so dark, and I have no idea how far they stretch. Even if I had a light, it'd be hard to make myself start walking those halls. And I don't have one.

There's got to be something, though. I just need to make her listen to me one more time.

Books on romance and sex, maybe? She must have space for new thoughts about me somewhere. I touch my forehead, then hold my palms open at chest level. Concentrate.

I'm starting to feel self-conscious when my imagination comes through: a library book forms, with the title Getting Over It: How to Move On and Focus on Loving Yourself written in golden filigree across the simple green cover. My name's stamped underneath the cover, too. Published at just nineteen, look at me.

I let that jaunty thought bolster me into braving the dark rows of bookshelves. Where the scary noise probably came from. Being non-binary means I can admit I'm terrified without worrying about my masculinity, right? But pride is gender neutral, so I hurt that a little.

It's not like I'm in my physical body, I remind myself. Something bad probably will happen again; I just have to endure it.

That thought is enough. Trying to hold my head high, I stride into the darker parts of the library.

At least there's light to see the names on the side of the shelves, though I have to crane my neck and squint in the darkness to read them. Instead of genres or the Dewey decimal system, they're labeled with more basic names: fears, hurts, ambitions, hopes. I poke my head down ambitions and hopes, but those shelves are so full that books are stacked on the floor in haphazard piles. For a second, I consider trying to remove some books, but no, who knows what that would do--and I think I can find a more specific shelf.

A book falls down from one of the shelves, making me jump, but there's no sound after that. The ceiling is impossible to perceive, but if I stare hard enough, I can imagine a million horrible things up there, waiting for me to turn my back. Huge spiders or some nightmare version of a librarian that's 85 percent teeth.

Turn my back I do, though. Run me through or devour me, do your worst. I'll come back and find a way to fix this.

Nothing swoops down from the darkness to meet my taunt. I move on.

A humming, mechanical chunk-whirring sound greets me as I turn a corner into a new part of the library. This area is somewhat better lit by what looks like white computer screens in the distance, several hundred feet away. Before those, there's something moving. Not a monster, but some kind of machine.

Cautiously, I approach. In a normal library, it'd be a typical sight. It's one of those massive copy machines that they charge you ten cents per copy to use, but the only thing it's spitting out are sheets of paper that have been entirely covered in ink. They float to the ground in front of it, and have been doing so for a while, based on the tall stack piled haphazardly in front of it.

I give the thing a wide berth, but it turns like an animal to follow me with its gaze.

Cool, cool, cool, fucking cool, I think as I clutch my book to my chest and break into a run.

I don't stop until I reach the relatively well-lit circle of computer screens, and even then I jump onto the desks holding them before turning around, just for a foot more distance. The copy machine lingers outside the computer's bright lights, unwilling to enter them. After a few seconds, it turns and drifts back to where it originally was, black paper spilling out of it like dead crows as it goes.

I catch my breath, mentally speaking, and get down from the desk I jumped onto like a scared rabbit.

Sorry, computers, I appreciate it, I think as politely as I can, lest they hear me and think I'm not grateful.

That's when I see it! Technology really is the best. To my left, there's a whole section with my name on it. It's not far from here. Maybe she associates me with the digital, which makes sense. Texting is the main way we communicate.

I creep out of the protective light of the computers, my eyes on the copy machine.

Lucky for me, it seems to have lost interest, and soon I'm at the section with "Oran" written on pink poster board that's been cut into energetic spikes.

The shelf reminds me of the teen section of the library, with colorful titles, illustrated covers, and graphic novels. Though some of them have titles that are a different kind of graphic, which makes sense if these books are her thoughts about me. I suspected that Blanc's going through some very teenage "waking up" feelings and this seems to confirm that. I do feel bad for accidentally doing this to her, but at least this should help.

With a grateful sigh, I place my hand on one of the books, push it to the side, and slot my new title in.

Instantly, the other titles lose some color, shifting more into regular, boring adult books.

"Now, why did you go and do that? She may be weak, but she was blooming nonetheless."

Oh.

No.

Just when I thought I'd fixed everything, something much, much worse appeared out of the shadows.

I can't see her, but I feel her as she puts her hands on my shoulders. Her red nails feel as sharp as razor blades, except for the index and middle finger of her left hand, where they've been filed down short and round. Somehow, that's even more threatening than the sharp ones. I do not need to turn around to see who she is. Does anyone in a story ever need to turn around to know when the monster is finally right behind them?

"I knew when she was born that sweet Chrysanthemum would never amount to much." She draws her right hand along the skin of my neck and tips my head back, so I have to look into the ghastly beauty of her face, the white flesh that might as well be bone from the way it reminds me of death. "Not like my precious Violet."

There's no hope of me speaking, not in her presence, not when Blanc's mind is choking my throat with ooze. But her mother doesn't seem to expect me to reply.

"Little boy, I'm curious why I keep finding you inside my girls like this. And I think you'll tell me, won't you? You don't have such a strong girl to protect you this time."