The Great Below

The Aftermath - Part 2

Instead of letting him in, Nick crammed himself through the door to his room – which never quite opened all the way – to block Alex's view of the interior.

"What's going on?" Alex asked him. From the other side of the door, he could hear Nick's television on low. Light from the screen flashed and bounced blue around on the wall, and the overhead light appeared to be off for the evening.

"I just need you to stay put a moment, so I can explain," Nick replied.

"Explain what?"

A new voice came from behind Nick. "I don't—" it began, and broke into coughs. It sounded like Octavia only worse, gravely and sick. "I don't want to stay in my room anymore."

Alex put his hand against the door, but Nick continued to block him. "Just listen to me first, okay? I need you to brace yourself."

"Why is she in there?"

"Raul came to me when he heard a loud crash and couldn't get into her room to check on it. He thought maybe the deadbolt was thrown."

"That's impossible," Alex said. "You have to have a key to lock it from the inside."

"Well, when I got to her, and I can't emphasize this enough – when I got to her, this is how she was."

There was a chill spreading from his neck down through his fingertips, and Alex let his hand fall reluctantly from the door. "What happened?" he asked.

"You can come in, just don't freak out. I'm trying to help."

The door opened and Alex's heartbeat was too loud in his ears. Octavia was lying on her side on Nick's bed. She wore the black sweatshirt he'd bought, the one she seemed to be fond of, and she'd paired it with a baggy pair of pajama bottoms. Her knees were bent, legs tucked beneath her. On Nick's television, a cartoon boy and his magical dog were fighting monsters. Octavia watched with lazy disinterest. In fact, she struggled to keep her head up. There was something gripped tight and hidden between her hands and the blanket.

There was an intimacy to the scene and, at first, Alex wasn't sure what the problem was. It looked like she'd come to Nick's room to hang out with him, which produced a pang of jealousy. Then he saw the dark stripes at the side of her throat.

"What in the hell...?" Alex said. He came over to the edge of the bed and bent down on one knee.

Octavia didn't take her eyes off the television. Neon yellows and blues flashed across her face. Her fingers flexed around the neck of a bottle with a sad, sloshing inch left at the bottom. Vodka. The way she smelled, Octavia may as well have poured the contents over her head.

Alex turned to Nick. "You gave her alcohol?" he asked.

"If you mean in the sense that I suggested it was available, and she politely asked for it, then no."

"Who grabbed you and left those marks?" Alex asked her.

Octavia looked at him with empty, lidded eyes. She shook her head in a slight motion and raised one hand to tap at her throat, signaling that she was no longer able, or willing, to talk. The bottle slid from her other hand and took a tumble off the bed, but Alex caught it before it could break.

"I just need to know what happened," he said.

She let the silence continue between them like an impulsive dare; any information she might have given him had long since been swallowed, then buried under the contents of most of a bottle of Smirnoff.

The image of Victor came into his mind, hands dripping with blood. But the timing wasn't right. He had an alibi for this. "Come with me," Alex told her. "You can stay in my room tonight."

She curled her legs tighter in refusal. When one leg brushed the other, her pajamas rode up past her ankle and revealed a ghostly row of thin, white scars. Alex reached one hand under her knees, hoping to swing her legs out and lift her up, when her own hand shot out and cracked him in the arm. Drunk or sober, her obstinacy was still maddening.

"He's right," Nick added. "Alex will keep you safe."

"You shouldn't have let her lie down in the first place. She's drunk."

"She said it hurt too much to sit."

Alex stopped cold. He looked from Nick to Octavia. He considered the marks on her neck, the mismatched clothes, the protective folding of her legs and the way she'd slapped his hand away. This was what Nick had meant, about bracing himself. Her injury wasn't a threat, or intimidation crossing the line of decency. It was much worse.

Alex lunged at Nick. He caught him in the chest, scrambling for a grip on his t-shirt, and knocked him into the wall next to the television. "Why didn't you say that?" Alex hadn't meant to, but he was shouting. "If you knew what happened, why didn't you tell me?"

"Hey! I'm her teacher, not her bodyguard. You said it yourself – no one can lock that door from the inside."

Well, he hadn't said that, exactly. "Who did this?" Alex yelled.

Nick thrust his hands into the air. "I don't know! Billy was in the kitchen when I found her, but he says he didn't touch her. And a guy like that, I mean..." Nick took a breath, lowered his arms, tried to compose himself. "If Billy had done something, he would have boasted. So if he says he didn't do it, I'd like to believe him."

"I'll go," Octavia said with her small voice. It took some effort to get up from the bed, and she shifted her weight gingerly.

Alex let go of Nick to offer assistance. "I'm sorry," he told him. "I'm—"

Nick waved the apology away. "You're mad, I get it. You should be. She should be furious."

With Alex's arm to lean on, Octavia made it to the door more confidently than she'd gotten up. She failed to conceal the way one leg faltered a little at the end of each step. He hoped he was only looking at the effects of the vodka. "Let me carry you," Alex said. "It'll be easier."

He trailed her to the hallway, where Octavia stopped to wave thanks to Nick. He nodded meekly before closing his door. When they were alone, she rubbed at her abdomen. "Your shoulder is bony," she managed to say.

"No, not like that." And then he tried to sweep his overzealous arm under her knees again, but he hadn't waited for the all-clear and she flattened a hand on his chest, warning him to stop. "Please, Octavia. I feel terrible." He didn't want to linger on what had likely happened – it was a sickness rising in his throat that he couldn't shove down by swallowing. Instead he wanted to lift her into his arms and comfort her. It wasn't self-serving. There was no unwelcome attraction this time. He wanted to go back and do the whole evening over, change the course of events somehow. He would have gladly re-scheduled Victor.

Slowly, she nodded. Alex curved one hand around her back and the other behind her knees, lifting her. She was light, insubstantial. He began the walk to his private quarters and, though she didn't seem comfortable being carried, she tucked her face against the warmth of his shirt.

"You can tell me, you know," he mumbled into the top of her hair. "When you're ready."

Beneath the fog of alcohol, her cool, eucalyptus scent was fainter than he'd remembered. He supposed it would slowly vanish altogether. But that wasn't what bothered him. It was something else, a scent both familiar and confusing that rose from her skin. At the door to his room, Alex needed his key. He set her on her feet.

Alex singled out the correct key but dropped it. Putting it into the lock was another challenge; his hands were worthless, like they were at the end of every job. His stomach was churning.

"You can stay here as long as you like," he said, but he too had to strain to get his voice working, because he'd placed the scent on her neck.

It was Dominic's cologne.