"Speak up, little boy," Violette's mother demands when I don't immediately answer her. At that, I feel compelled to explain the whole situation with Blanc in a tumble, but what comes out is just gurgling soup.

She lets go of me with a cluck of her tongue when she realizes I can't speak in the heavy atmosphere. Not that I think for a moment that she intends to allow me to leave this vision so easily. She's clearly thinking of what to do with me when I decide to not give her the chance and run.

I retrace my steps, heading for the entrance to the library. As my shoes pound against the worn carpet, I try desperately to summon up the memory of our last encounter.

How did I leave? It's blurry, like the rest of it, but I remember Violette's voice and many hands. So, Violette herself must have pulled me out. Does that mean she was aware that I saw her mother but didn't admit it? That's hard to believe. We've established she's a terrible liar!

Her mother said Blanc won't be strong enough to do the same, so the one who has to get me out this time is me. If I just escape, I will never ever ever go inside any of her daughters' minds again, and maybe she won't be so intimidating in the real world.

Wishful thinking, I know, but at least Violette will be by my side out there.

As I pass the light of the computer screens, I remember that there were other threats in this library.

No time to slow down. I skid through sheets of black paper the copy machine has discarded, hopscotching between piles so I don't slip on them--at least my mental image of myself is wearing sneakers.

The copy machine sees me coming and lifts the lid of its scanner like an alligator opening its mouth. It doesn't roar, but the mechanical whirring of paper and gears increases exponentially. It's deafening. Rather than avoiding it, I run straight toward it.

I can't help but step on the paper now, the sheets are so thick on the ground. They make a sound like the crunch of a desiccated animal corpse rather than crushed paper. Somehow, I make it through the treacherous path without slipping. The machine doesn't seem to know what to do with me approaching it so directly, and it turns several inches to the side, almost in a flinch, as I barrel into it.

It has wheels, right? Even if it's in control somewhat, I can move it. I throw myself behind it and shove the machine, hard, in the direction Violette's mother.

I don't look back, certain that she's pursuing, but maybe that thing can slow her down.

Around the corner, back through the initial path I took, where the shelves and ceiling were taller. The shelves are shivering like trees in the wind, books falling to the ground much heavier than leaves. But the path between them is clear. Though it's still distant, I can see the exit from here, and what other way would you leave a vision like this than through the front door? I sprint toward it, ignoring the fact that there's a roaring clamoring behind me that sounds like bookshelves are starting to fall.

Slow her down and let me out, Christy! I beg, hoping that she's conscious enough to hear me mentally screaming to her. I try to speak aloud too, but it makes me cough and stumble, so I quickly give up. Have to keep running.

As I reach the front doors, I toss myself against them, hoping my momentum will knock them open if they are locked. No such luck.

I scream wordlessly in frustration, kick and slam into the doors, but they don't open. I have to look around then, and see that my pursuer is indeed pursuing, though at a leisurely pace. Her hand rests on the side of the copy machine, as if it's no more than a large family dog she's befriended. It accompanies her obediently, shaking just a little from side to side. There's still a terrible sound of crashing as the bookshelves are indeed falling, but away from her, as if nothing collapsing in this place would ever dare to harm her.

She walks. She has no need to hurry.

Without many more options, I jump over the front desk and grab the door of the staff room again.

When I yank the door open, I know there won't be much time before the mouth closes. Hoping that Blanc is a better ally than her mother ever would be, I throw myself into it and allow myself to be consumed.

* * *

coquetteviolette: ? What's the weird situation?
coquetteviolette: Are you okay?
coquetteviolette: 哥哥？
coquetteviolette: Oran?

* * *

I wake with a start on top of Blanc, my face sideways on the pillow next to her head. Disorientation momentarily overwhelms me as I try to put my thoughts together. My chest heaves like I just ran a marathon.

The pieces start to fall into place. Okay, first thing: Blanc's passed out, but she's breathing, right? I put my hand over her nose and feel the soft warmth of air. Thank god. I don't need accidental homicide on my conscience on top of all the intentional crimes.

I untangle myself from her, discard the used condom, and hurry to throw on my clothes. Staying here feels bad, and I solved the problem with her obsession, didn't I? I'll text her an apology for having to run.

Though the other problem remains, one that I was only half-aware of before this. Violette's mother wants to get to know me, but I don't want to get to know her. I don't think I'll like her methods of interrogation, or what she'll do with the information.

Does she know where I am, where Blanc or Violette are? Violette doesn't live where she was born, I know that much--Eric's got a touch of country accent from the state he grew up in, but they moved before she picked it up herself.

Meanwhile, I have no idea if Blanc comes from here, and I'm not trying to go into her head again to find out. Running back to Violette with my tail between my legs is probably the best plan. I should've gone to her from the start! Been honest with her at so many points! Lying just came so naturally.

No time to wallow, or maybe there is time, but the lingering sensation of a wolf snapping at my heels has me wanting out of this motel room as soon as possible. I'm sliding on my jeans when Blanc sits straight upright in bed.

"Oh, hey, sorry, but I have to..." I start, before trailing off as I realize something is very wrong with her.

She cracks her fingers and then the bones in her neck at an alarming volume. Her initial movements almost seem to skip, like I'm watching a stop-motion film, before they settle into something lifelike. Yet there's no comfort to that fluidity as she turns to look at me with malevolence like nothing I've experienced outside of nightmares.

"I believe I was very clear Chrysanthemum couldn't protect you, little boy," she says in a voice that is not Blanc's, though not quite the one I heard in the vision either. Same mind, different throat. Not that I can hear her thoughts to confirm that, anymore.

"I'm not a boy," I find myself objecting in a small voice.

She laughs at that. "You're certainly no man."

I don't know why I bothered. She doesn't care about my identity. Someone who would take advantage of the tall but wide-eyed, chubby-cheeked Eric I've seen in Violette's baby photos doesn't care about about anyone's feelings but her own.

Once more, running is the only option, but I'm mostly undressed and not even sure what pocket I put my keys in. My hoodie, probably, which is discarded... somewhere. I whip my head around to find it as she rises out of the bed.

Spotting it on the floor by the bed, I dive for it. She's in Blanc's body, so she's limited to whatever abilities her daughter has, right? Plus, she's smaller than me, so I don't think she could overpower me. I brace myself for her to grab me regardless.

When I realize she's not trying to stop me, I look up and see that she's gone to the phone on the bedside table instead.

Her finger's on the 9. She makes eye contact with me before drifting her finger up to the 1. Oh, come on! Don't drag Blanc into this!

Crocodile tears start to form in her eyes as she moves up to the final 1.

"Okay, stop!" I shout, hands clenched impotently around the keys in my hoodie pocket. I can't afford her filing whatever false report she wants to make, for my sake or Blanc's. The whole point of this was to not ruin her life!

"That's a good boy," she says as she holsters the phone back in its slot.

"I don't get why you care so much why I was in there," I say, moving away from her so there's at least a small coffee table between us. I can't help but imagine her twisting Blanc's body into some sort of long-legged beast and leaping at me.

"It demonstrates significant mental ability for a human, if you did it yourself. And humans with something extra produce better blossoms," she says, as if she's making a note of how nice the weather is, not what sounds like a breeding plan.

"Can't say I'm interested in kids!" I say, my voice cracking at the end of it.

She shrugs Blanc's bare shoulders, and I try not to look at the way she hasn't adjusted her half-removed dress at all. It's really not the time! "You would be convinced. If not by me then by Violet. I need to get there first."

I don't like the way she says Violette's name. Like there's a possessive "my" in front of it, spoken or not. It makes me want to drag her into a physical fight, but I'm not confident she wouldn't have tricks up her sleeve. I settle for snapping back at her.

"Violette doesn't want kids either--even if she did, if you want mine so bad, why does it matter if she has one first?" I edge toward the door, but she moves closer when I do that, so I settle into an uneasy waiting stance.

"So you two are close. Bonded, even." She smiles at the confirmation of her suspicions, but her eyes might as well be made of ice. "To answer your question, though you've been avoiding mine: it's a one time thing, making one of my blossoms."

Is that what 'using me up' meant? I don't even want kids and that still makes me shudder--she's done that to how many people?

"Just... leave us alone, please!" I know it's stupid, but I can't think of anything better than begging. "I make Violette happy. Isn't it a good thing that your daughter's happy?"

"If you're the source of her recent development, then you have done well. She's an even better candidate for grafting now."

The sound of my anxious swallowing at that is pathetic, even to my ears. "Grafting?"

"I suppose you don't know botany. Tell me your name and you can find out for yourself what I mean."

"No," I say stubbornly. I'm not stupid; I see what she's done to Blanc. Grafting, like a skin graft? A mental version of that? If she means overlaying Violette's self with her own, I have to do everything in my power to stop that.

"Oh? Your face got so serious. Threats won't work anymore, will they?" She presses her hand into her cheek and smiles at me like I'm just a growling puppy. That's accurate to how I feel in front of her.

Before I can think of a reply, she speaks again. "I'll just have to ask someone else."

With that, the frost melts away from Blanc's face. She blinks at me, drops her hand from her face, then awkwardly crosses her arms over her bare chest.

"Oran...? I had..." She looks around as if to confirm where we are, then shakes her head. "A strange... dream? What happened?"

I hold my hands up and push them forward in a 'hold on there' gesture, not sure what else to do. She already gave away my first name! I don't know why her mother even cares, but I don't want her to get the rest!

"Huh?" She cocks her head like she's hearing someone call for her.

I yell "Don't!" as loud as I can, verbally and mentally. But Violette's mother must be pushing from the other side because her mouth opens to answer right away.

"Green... like the color? In my hometown... what does that...?"

She buckles before she can finish, and I have to rush forward to keep her from hurting herself.

* * *

Violette's mother doesn't come back.

Straining, I haul Blanc onto the bed and lean over her. She's still breathing, though she looks exhausted. I hover near her for some time, feeling guilty for dragging her into a far worse mess than I could've ever made for her, but there's nothing else I can do, is there?

Nothing that isn't dealing with her horrible mother, whose name I still don't know, though she now knows mine.

I sit on the worn couch in front of the coffee table and shove my face into my hands. Talk about compounding my fuck ups. Blanc was one thing, now her mother knows who I am and has a rough idea of where we are. She must not have known Violette's location before; Blanc living here was just an inconvenient goddamn coincidence. Maybe she has daughters in every major city, waiting like undeground bulbs for the right type of rain.

Why do I really matter? Sure, Violette seems to be developing new abilities, but she was plenty powerful before I got to her, right?

I need to talk to Violette. I've never called her before, but of course I have her number saved in my phone. With unsteady hands, I pull it up and press the 'Call' button.

She picks up within a couple of rings. "Oran? Is that you?"

I let out a short sigh of relief. "Yeah, it's me. Are you okay?"

"You're the one who sent weird messages."

"Yeah. I'm sorry about that. I should've been honest about the problem. I royally fucked up."

All I can hear for a few seconds is her soft breathing. "What happened?"

"Long story, but... I met your mom."

"Oh no," she whispers, more static than words. "Did she..."

"She wasn't in her body, she didn't--she couldn't control me. But she was still dangerous. She knows we're close, my name, where we are." I take a deep breath and try not to cry. I'm so catastrophically, horribly stupid. "I'm so sorry, I messed up so bad."

"Get back here! We'll do something! Don't leave me alone!" Violette yells into the phone, and I nod though she can't see it, feeling as if someone has dropped me into zero gravity. She doesn't raise her voice like that.

"Okay. Yeah. I'm sorry. I'm coming." I stand up, ignoring the way blood rushes to my ears. "I... I love you, Violette, you know, no matter what. She couldn't stop me."

I really expect her to answer me, to admit she loves me too, but there's just the soft sound of her crying, and then the call drops.

* * *

The drive back to Violette's house passes like I'm in a dream. I don't even remember the route I took. I feel... bad.

Worse is the feeling when I open the front door and see Violette's mother must have powers I can hardly imagine, if she's already standing at the end of the foyer, talking to Eric, who doesn't look happy to see her.

Did she just need a hint? Can she fly? 

I consider shutting the door and running, but that would be too cowardly, even for me. Not when Violette's there next to Eric, her expression as dull and dark as the first day I saw it.

She notices me before anyone else, and the fear that overtakes the dullness in her eyes is the worst thing yet.

"It's too late, run!" she screams, but I shake my head and step inside, not willing to, not this one time.

Maybe it would've been a better idea. Everything in the house, from the walls to the furniture to the air, seems to shatter as soon as I put a foot inside.

* * *

I wake up with a headache.

It's a normal day, I think? I'm in my bedroom, and I don't have school today... pretty sure. I'm so sleepy still, it's hard to remember. Rubbing at my eyes, I sit up and yawn, then listen to the faint hum of activity from downstairs. Do I really need to get up if I don't have class and my head is throbbing?

That's when my older brother opens the door to my room and sticks his head in.

"Oran, even if you don't have school, don't sleep in all morning," he says, like the overbearing nerd he is.

The most annoying thing about being the middle sibling is having an older brother who acts like I'm a kid even though he's only a year older and having a little sister who needs to be protected all the time even though she's only a year younger. Not that I really mind looking after Violette (she's about as sweet as a sister could be), but it does mean I'm the scapegoat a lot of the time.

"Worry about your own life, Jett," I grumble as I pull the quilt on the bed back over my head.

"Mother wants you downstairs for breakfast. It's not my head that will roll if you stay here," he says before shutting the door again.

I sit back up with a groan. If she wants me out of bed, then I guess I have no choice. I can't get away with anything with her. Not like with our dad.

A private grin crosses my face at that. Jett thinks he's the only one he likes, but I know better. I just had to wait a little longer, since I'm younger.

Our dad's way less strict than our mother. She's hard on all of us, but especially Violette. I do what I can to take some of the heat off of her. I know she should probably grow up, considering she's almost out of high school, but... I don't mind if she needs me.

Since I have to be there for breakfast, I tamp down my headache, get up, and throw on some clothes. It doesn't really matter what I wear when I'm not leaving the house.

I happen to head into the hallway at the same time as Violette, whose room is across from mine. She must've gotten the big brother wake-up treatment too.

"Hey, princess," I say, though looking at her makes my headache worse. It's probably because I want to ruffle her hair or something, but I know I can't.

None of us are allowed to touch her; only our mother can. Sometimes I break the rules because she really wants a hug, but not where we could get caught.

She nods at me, but doesn't speak. Her eyes are red rimmed from crying, which isn't unusual. She's down a lot of the time, but I do what I can to help. I'm better than anyone at making her laugh.

"I woke up with a total headache, and then the personification of headaches made me get out of bed, so you know it's going to be a bad day." I make a face and she gives a slight smile. Complaining about Jett is a great sibling bonding activity. It's for the best that we got adopted into the same family, but I'm not throwing a parade anytime soon. At least I got Violette out of the arrangement.

"Oran," she says quietly before we go down the stairs, "don't listen to what she says about me, please."

"You know I won't, I know you're a good girl," I say in an equally soft voice. "I love you."

In a sibling way, of course! Though--I would be lying if I said there weren't other feelings. But looking at those directly is dangerous. If our mother found out...

Violette nods at me with downcast eyes and goes down the stairs ahead of me. As I watch her, I feel something, something awful. Pain, from the headache, but in my chest too.

Love. Love. I love her so much. It's not fair that I can't touch her. She needs me.

The strength of that feeling knocks the wind out of me, to the point I turn around and go into the bathroom instead of downstairs. Need to splash water on my face and calm down before I get into even more trouble than I usually do.

* * *

I wish I'd stayed upstairs. I don't want to be here while our mother touches Violette.

She doesn't do it in front of our dad, Jett, or I, but it's not like going into the dining room keeps us from hearing the sounds. Violette's rough gasps and whines, the rhythmic wet noise of fingers in and out of her pussy. Mother's murmured voice, telling her to accept the consequences of her behavior. The three of us eat in silence, not making eye contact. There's nothing we can do, right? She makes the rules, even for our dad. He only gets to fuck us because she says it's fine.

It's just how it is. Thinking about it, listening to Violette crying out softly, it all makes my headache that much worse.

I really don't like our mother.

* * *

After that uncomfortable breakfast, I'm languishing around my room, hoping my headache will go away, when Jett comes in without knocking.

"Oi, rude," I say from where I'm lying on my bed, too sore for a proper cutting remark.

"I'm sorry, but we have to talk," he says in a low but urgent voice. His thoughts are unreadably tumultuous, not that I want to try when my head feels like this.

I roll over on my side and raise my eyebrows. "Yeah bro, what's the big deal?"

"That! That is the big deal. I'm not..." He stops and wipes at his forehead, then takes his fogged glasses off and cleans them with his shirt. He's practically steaming with exertion. "At first, it all made sense, but Eric isn't... this isn't right."

"What do you mean, like, morally? Who cares about that, man," I say in a bored voice. He was the one who took his dick first, was I supposed to not go after it too?

"No! Listen," and he looks so desperate, I can't play him off with a joke. I sit up. "We're not siblings! He's... the ring... I still have it. I have it. So that's proof, isn't it?"

He opens his hand and shows me a silver ring with a tiny glimmering emerald in it.

Like his eyes. His engagement ring. My own eyes open wide as awareness rushes back.

Jett. Stupid, annoying, stubborn Uncle Jett, does have one thing going for him. It's so hard to control him for long--not enough, not all the way.

And me? I'm a troublemaker and a brat and way too nosey for my own good, so trying to tie me into her little fiction alongside Jett was a terrible idea.

"You're right," I admit, and reach out to fold his hand back around the ring. "Hide that, okay? We have to be careful. Act normal."

He nods and lets out a shaky breath as he tucks the ring away. His face is still shaded and tense, but there's some relief there too. I might be a thorn in his side in the real world, but I'm the devil he knows, not an interloper like Violette's mother.

Shit. How the hell do we get out of here? She's rewritten reality--to the point where Jett really looks like a younger version of himself--just so she can trap Violette under her thumb. It's like the reality reversing dream Violette dropped me into just days ago, blown up to a terrifying scale.

At least I have one advantage over her, no matter how powerful she is. She always asked me questions. Presumably, given how much she wanted it, she needed information about me to rope me into this vision somehow. If she could read minds, she wouldn't ask, she'd just take.

Maybe, somehow, I can figure out how to use that against her.