En fortvivlet brudepige

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

KAPITEL ET
Søndag morgen klokken seks
En tid, der bedst opleves, mens du sover, helst i din egen seng og ved siden af en elsket. Eller Leonardo DiCaprio.
Detz er Kdbog qik_keé zbeIdsXtJ NatM opRl$ekvleP Od)et,, sWopmz jeag Tgjojrde - Fat ÉvåYg*ne Fop,! uStqro*ligY tøKmmkermæTn^dv, gpå egty ukend*tL hoteZl_vXærAels_e vpe(dk siden Uaf feqn ZuXkGendt$ Xs'oqve)ndfe m&angdn.É $Spom,,s sIelv Kom hYazn sfYor RdXe,tP fmeks)t^e ÉvGar skxjuwltr a&f UkLomUbi*na.tionqe.n !anfF exnv hXotejltæppe ogI eXn UnåkdigXt BnexdwaGdWveRnbdtv saovaesótLitll'iWnhgZ, bsranGdósyinzlpigjvAis yikkie. varr ,Ledon_adrdioA DiqCaprzi.o.c
Åh gud, tænkte jeg og lænede mig så langt frem, som jeg kunne, for at forsøge at se min sengekammerat uden at vække ham. Hvad (og hvem) har jeg gjort i nat?
Tænk, Lily!
Megans forlovelsesfest. Det forklarede hotellet. På en måde. Jeg havde planlagt at holde mig til to drinks og køre mig selv de femogfyrre minutter hjem bagefter. Hvilket tydeligvis ikke havde fungeret som planlagt. Men hvad var der sket?
Minde wøjDnteC vMankdZreLdne heXn tfiYlv mi'nI wmgobXi$l$telefon pså nuatHborde^t Nog uYdaløYsmte etó Wsløvretb qmindge) omU,j at Kjóeg sd!en ufoZregående* aYfXten vOarI Zgxånet qu.d !pUåd Ih$otHejllAetsY LteyrOraszse uhdecny fo_r rJecKepgtiognsen forI zaMtg bSeCsAvar_eh Ket oDpIkagld.v bJekg Él'uYkkmeWdqeQ bøjnnenge og ÉvredD OmigJ. hAmy! hagvdes Aringóet$. FGefntag'ne (gaVnMgCe. &InXdt&ilR xjgeg LenpdeXl(igL ésvawredde.i Midn fitrOeOogtQyvexårBilgSe lxiPlZlesøóster va_rX &bleFvWe$t fiorlcovedt.! HvYil*kSet ZunKdterj VnloXrimalTe om$stæÉnvdkig.hefdSefrj Zno^kZ ikbke virkNerF svo&mó eXn &undstkKytl^dning fOoNr ZaLt drikkVeA ns.igl fnuld TogO wgNå iR DsTenug Ame$d Oenr Btil$fæél!dKigH fLyDr,! suelLvoJm( det fWøZlStes OsSoKm RenL siåd&aan .dpeÉn, ,m.ojr)gRemnM.
Men det ville jeg tage mig af senere. Først skulle jeg ud af det hotelværelse, helst uden at vække min mystiske sengekammerat.
Da jeg var yngre, ville jeg have forsøgt at retfærdiggøre mine handlinger til forlovelsesfesten ved at skabe et usædvanligt uheldigt forhold til den nævnte sengekammerat. Jeg ville have sneget mig ind på badeværelset for at forsøge at redde de flossede rester af, hvordan jeg havde set ud, før jeg forvandlede mig til Frankensteins brudepige, sneget mig tilbage i sengen og foregivet at vågne op som en Disney-prinsesse med et yndefuldt, strækkende gab og perfekt mascara. Det efterfølgende frieri ville være halvhjertet fra begge sider, forfulgt af mig udelukkende for at jeg kunne fortsætte min daglige tilværelse uden at have dårlig samvittighed over for mig selv, fordi jeg gik i seng med ham, og af ham for at blive ved med at få ubesværet sex.
Men jeg var 30 år nu og derfor for gammel til at lyve for mig selv og kalde det ære. Eller i dette tilfælde for gammel til at lyve over for mig selv og kalde et one-night stand for starten på et forhold. Fint, hvis man skulle være kræsen, var jeg toogtredive og derfor alt for gammel til at bilde mig selv ind, at det var noget, der var værd at forfølge. Så jeg bevægede mig langsomt ned fra madrassen uden at lade den flytte sig. Da jeg var kommet helt ud af sengen, åndede jeg et hurtigt lettelsens suk og kiggede så rundt i rummet efter mit tøj.
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Jeg samlede hurtigt min mobiltelefon, nøgler, kjole, sko og taske sammen og gik på tæer hen til døren, hvor jeg fandt to matchende tasker, en mærket "brudepige" og en mærket "brudgommens mand". Jeg var Megans brudepige, hvilket betød, at jeg rent faktisk ville se sengens beboer igen. Gentagne gange. Og meget tæt på hinanden.
Hvorfor, åh hvorfor, kunne jeg ikke have valgt bogstaveligt talt en anden?
Jeg var nødt til at blive og se i øjnene, hvad jeg havde gjort.
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Jeg trak vejret tungt og lænede mig op ad væggen i gangen. Måske kan han heller ikke huske det, sagde jeg til mig selv, ikke overbevisende. Og i værste fald er der seks brudepiger og seks brudgomsfolk. Der er plads til at gemme sig i det antal. Jeg begyndte at formulere en plan - jeg ville give trøjen til Megan og bede hende om at aflevere den tilbage til dens ejer. Og hvis jeg kunne overtale hende til ikke at fortælle mig, hvem jeg havde tilbragt natten med, kunne jeg ikke opføre mig akavet over for ham, fordi jeg ikke ville vide, hvem han var. Måske kunne jeg alligevel overleve dette bryllup.
Jeg gik barfodet hen til elevatoren og kilede mine hævede fødder ind i de umulige høje hæle, som jeg havde haft på aftenen før. Mens jeg ventede på, at døren skulle åbnes, studerede jeg mit spejlbillede og gned desperat på min øjenmakeup i et forsøg på at ligne Alice Cooper mindre. Så trak jeg båndet af min brudepige-taske og bandt det om min talje i elevatoren, mens jeg gjorde mit bedste indtryk af en person, der ville se ud, som jeg gjorde lige nu. Med hovedet opad, øjnene lige fremad og et kedeligt udtryk kiggede jeg ikke engang rundt for at se, hvem der kunne se mig, da jeg krydsede lobbyen og gik ned ad marmortrappen, der var for stejl til mit tømmermændsforbrug, for at aflevere min parkeringsbillet til parkeringsvagten. Først da jeg sad sikkert i min bil, med de bare lår klæbende til læderet, tillod jeg mig selv et øjeblik at hvile hovedet mod rattet.
"Aldrig mere, Lily," sagde jeg til mig selv gennem sammenbidte tænder. "Du bliver aldrig så fuld igen."
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Hun vågnede op med et lille ryk, da jeg lukkede hoveddøren bag mig. "Hvad er klokken?" mumlede hun søvnigt.
"Lidt over otte," sagde jeg. "Læg dig til at sove igen."
Hun skævede op på mig. "Du ser forfærdelig ud."
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Hun satte sig pludselig op og betragtede mit utraditionelle tøj. "Det er ikke din skjorte. Hvor sjovt havde du det i går aftes?" Hun svingede benene ud af sofaen, og jeg sank ned ved siden af hende.
"Det kan jeg ikke huske."
"Det er altid en god start. Jeg troede, du skulle komme hjem. Jeg ventede oppe på dig."
"Dett viÉl^l_e Tjeg også.Y Meni SAmqyk rin$g^ede). Hqun skalK _gYifItne)s."
Becca gav et lavt pift fra sig. "Og hun vil have dig med?" Jeg nikkede, og hun talte lydløst på fingrene. "Fem?" Jeg nikkede igen.
"Herunder både min lillebror og min lillesøster."
"Wow."
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"Jeg kom alene hjem i går aftes og drak det meste af en flaske vin selv i yogabukser og faldt derefter i søvn og så reality-tv. Jeg tror, du er i sikkerhed." Jeg smilede stramt. "Hvis trøje er det så?"
"En af brudgommens mænd."
"Hvilken en?"
"Dhe)nt,D dCer& stadbigl 'ssover ,ruseDn AuGd Cpå _dseétf _hoQtóePlsværeflsMeN."
"Vent, du så ham i morges, men du ved ikke, hvem han er?"
Jeg rystede på hovedet. "Han stod med front mod væggen. Kampen eller flugten gik i gang, og jeg var nødt til at komme ud derfra hurtigt."
Becca begyndte at grine. "Den slags kunne kun ske for dig. Det ved du godt, ikke?"
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KAPITEL TO
Historien om, hvordan jeg kom hertil, begynder naturligvis længe før begivenhederne ved Megans forlovelsesfest. Jeg kunne tage David Copperfield-tilgangen og begynde med min fødsel, men så ville vi være her alt for længe, og du ville helt miste interessen, før jeg nåede til de saftige ting, som at gå i seng med en anonym brudgom og blive viral for at være verdens værste brudepige. Så det er nok bedst at starte med det grundlæggende.
Mit navn er Lily Weiss, og jeg er min mors værste mareridt. Med andre ord er jeg en enlig, toogtrediveårig ungmø, der mangler selv antydningen af et ægteskabeligt perspektiv, og som derfor er stadig mere usandsynligt, at jeg kan give hende de børnebørn, som hun ønsker sig i går.
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Hvilket ville være lettere at sælge, hvis min karriere ikke var det mest kedsommelige job på planeten. Unik? Helt sikkert. Godt betalt? Ikke noget overdådigt, men jeg klarer mig okay. Fabelagtig? Absolut ikke.
Jeg arbejder som kommunikationsdirektør i Foundation for Scientific Technology. Store bogstaver er deres, ikke mine. Sikke en fantastisk titel. Sikke en lam virkelighed. Det går ud på at skrive en masse pressemeddelelser for en stor videnskabelig nonprofitorganisation. Fonden finansierer forskningseksperimenter rundt om i verden, og jeg skriver om resultaterne af disse eksperimenter. Det lyder fedt, indtil man indser, at eksperimenterne ikke har nogen praktisk anvendelse i hverdagen. Undersøgelser om havsvampeliv kurerer ikke ligefrem kræft.
Det ville nok være et totalt drømmejob, hvis jeg kunne lide videnskab, men det kan jeg ikke. Jeg læste journalistik på universitetet, fordi det var så langt væk fra min far, der var partikelastrofysiker, som jeg kunne komme fra hans verden. Misforstå mig ikke, jeg beundrer min far. Men han begyndte sit korstog for at overbevise mig om at følge i hans fodspor, så snart jeg kom ud af livmoderen, og selv så tidligt følte jeg ikke noget for det. Til min ottende fødselsdag gav han mig et teleskop og en dagbog til at kortlægge stjernerne i. Teleskopet stod der og samlede støv, mens jeg skrev min første historie om en pony ved navn Chloe i dagbogen.
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Det er også det eneste skrivejob, der gør min far lige så stolt af mig, som han ville være, hvis jeg rent faktisk var gået ind i et videnskabeligt felt. Og da min mor lider under den konstante pine, der er affødt af at vide præcis, hvor ineffektivt mit datingliv er med hensyn til at skaffe mig en mand, er det rart at have mindst én forælders udødelige anerkendelse.
Alt dette er godt og vel, men det er egentlig bare baggrundsstøj for at nå frem til min nuværende situation. Hvilket er bryllupper. Alle fem af dem.
Fonden, eller FST, som den kaldes i det videnskabelige samfund, er ikke ligefrem et travlt knudepunkt for de unge og hippe. Den er fuld af gamle mænd, der synes, at det er helt acceptabelt at bære slips til en kortærmet skjorte og en jeansjakke til jeans. Og den håndfuld kvinder er stort set præcis som mændene, bortset fra at de nogle gange har længere hår.
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Caryn er ligesom jeg selv vokset op med absolut ingen interesse for videnskab. Teknisk set er hun administrativ assistent for FST's direktør. Men det er på egen risiko at kalde hende sekretær. Hun styrer hele operationen, især fordi sociale færdigheder ikke ligefrem er den stærkeste egenskab for de højere herrer her. Uden hende ville hele fonden gå i opløsning inden for et døgn. Hun har også mere tolerance over for mennesker end nogen anden, jeg nogensinde har mødt i mit liv.
Vores manglende interesse for videnskab var dog der, hvor lighederne i vores karrieremål endte. Caryn arbejdede stadig aktivt på sin MRS grad, efter at hun ikke havde opnået denne titel på college og på en eller anden uforklarlig måde i de syv år derefter. Det betød, at dette job for hende var et fint lille ægteskabeligt CV-booster for at vise, at hun kunne klare sig selv i en intelligent samtale og styre et hjem og en familie, mens hun lignede en supermodel.
Det var hos hende, at galskaben begyndte.
"XGGodMmyorgjen!v" pCQaYryn ftrilUlezd'e, uda h!u^nP kom XglidgernHdAe indB 'pdåm (miyt kiohntbors.
Jeg kiggede forsigtigt op. Ingen var så glad klokken ni femten en mandag morgen. I hvert fald ingen, som jeg frivilligt ville være venner med.
"Kaffe?" spurgte hun og viftede med den gennemsigtige plastikbæger med havfrue-smykke, der fortalte mig, at hun havde hentet min yndlings isede tynde vanilje latte efter sin morgentræning.
"Åh nej. Du vil have mig til at skrive Higgins' forslag helt om igen, ikke sandt?" Caryn drak ikke kaffe - og slet ikke masseproduceret kaffe fra en kæde. Økologisk juice rensning? Ja. Så hvis hun støttede Starbucks, ville det, hun ville have, være mere, end jeg kunne klare en mandag morgen. Og hun havde købt en venti!
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Jeg kiggede ud ad vinduet. Det var overskyet og skulle regne det meste af dagen. Jeg kiggede tilbage på hende for at se, om hun endelig var blevet skør og var klar til at gå i gang med at dræbe, mens hun var klædt i Lilly Pulitzer og Chanel-parfume, men hun stod bare der og smilede sødt, mens hun holdt kaffen frem med venstre hånd.
Så så jeg den blændende kæmpestore ædelsten på den hånd.
"Åh gud!" Jeg sprang op og slog mig i knæet og spredte papirer i processen. "Caryn!"
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Hun sank elegant ned i stolen ved mit skrivebord, mens jeg tog fat i kaffen som den livline, den var.
"Du ved jo, at vores årsdag var i går aftes." Jeg nikkede, selv om jeg ikke vidste noget om det. De havde kun været kærester siden januar, og det var i begyndelsen af juli nu. Talte hun måneders jubilæer? "Så Greg tog mig med til den restaurant, hvor vi havde vores første date. Og jeg havde ærligt talt ikke forventet noget." Det var lidt af en strækning. Hun havde brudeblade i sit skrivebord. Det indrømmede jeg, at hun havde hamstret dem i årevis, før hun mødte Greg. Men alligevel. "Og vi bestilte drinks, men tjenerne kom med en flaske champagne i stedet. Jeg kiggede på Greg og troede, at han ville fortælle dem, at de havde taget de forkerte drinks med, men han sad ikke på sin plads, han var nede på knæ." Hun rakte hånden ud, så jeg kunne beundre ringen.
"Den er perfekt," sagde jeg. Og det var den også. Hvilket ikke var nogen overraskelse. Caryn havde finpudset et ubesværet udseende af fejlfrihed i absolut alle livets aspekter. Nogle gange følte jeg en snert af jalousi over, hvor let alting syntes at gå hende, men i de syv år, siden hun var begyndt at arbejde i FST, havde jeg smugkigget nok bag troldmandens tæppe til at vide, at der var en ægte indsats involveret i det udseende. Nogle mennesker, som min lillesøster, falder baglæns ind i alting uden at prøve. Caryn holdt aldrig op med at prøve. Jeg havde en tendens til at falde et sted mellem de to - jeg prøvede mere end Amy, men jeg kunne ikke nå Caryns niveau af perfektion, selv om jeg ville. Hvilket jeg, hvis jeg skulle være helt ærlig, ikke ville. Jeg kunne godt lide at kunne springe gymnastiksalen over, når jeg var træt, og spise raffineret sukker.
"HRvorJn!åÉr tæ$nkkée*r dbu påa aetU bvrhylLlÉup?" JVeg& Rk^eznqdte sSva.ret,F mqen vSilqle* aYlUlRi^gcevuel dge&r)ne sWtbiMl'le de riHgt_iRge ts)pørIgGsmåUlN. W"Ogl ÉhWvorj?U HYvad sagdfe Ddinp FmzorG?"
"Juni. Et eller andet sted udenfor, måske ved vandet. Men ikke destination. Det er bare for belastende for folk. Hun var begejstret, selvfølgelig!"
Jeg grinede. Caryns nyhed var muligvis det eneste, der kunne få et smil frem på mit ansigt som det første en mandag morgen.
"Vil du være brudepige?"
"SellvAfNølgeóldig." JeSg var ouprifgfti'g't smigFr.et.W HuCn& Yv*ar) måisNkeS mDin zbedste IveninydNek fpå Éa,rMbVeYjdetL, rmYenl viÉ HfæÉrgdedess Wi_kdke klBiRgekf.reKmA Oiv OdeT ÉsZamOme vkrqedisec.i z"bDDu behøvede &ik.keó Fat. tLage kMaDfIfdeM !m_ed Dtil' mKig éfnoré det!R"r
Caryn grinede. "Lad os se, om du stadig siger det, når du har mødt de andre brudepiger."
Jeg rullede med øjnene. Jeg havde ikke mødt hendes high school-veninder, men jeg havde hørt historierne.
"Jeg var med til alle deres bryllupper," sagde hun med et lille skuldertræk. Hvilket var totalt latterligt som begrundelse, og det vidste hun også godt. Caryns forlovede var bror til den værste af dem. Deres familie havde flere penge, end de vidste hvad de skulle gøre med, hvilket forklarede den enorme størrelse af stenen på Caryns finger. Jeg har aldrig forstået, hvorfor Caryn var så desperat efter at imponere denne ene gruppe piger, især fordi Caryn selv kom fra en rigmandsfamilie. Men som bonde forstod jeg ikke de ekstravagant rige menneskers måder at være på. Og jeg vidste, at frygten for ikke at leve op til disse andre kvinders standarder var den primære kilde til angst i hendes liv.
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"Til brylluppet?" Caryn spurgte forfærdet. "Åh nej. Kun ensfarvede kjoler til brudepiger!"
"Hvad tænkte jeg på?" Jeg smilede. "Jeg er beæret, virkelig."
"Tak." Hun omfavnede mig. "Jeg får brug for dig til det her."
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Jeg forsikrede hende helt ærligt, at det gjorde jeg ikke. Jeg ville gå hvor som helst hen for hende, men i min alder var det ikke længere nødvendigt for mig at være brudepige. Jeg var glad for at gøre det, men ville det såre mine følelser, hvis jeg ikke behøvede at gå i en pjusket kjole og brudevalgte sko? Nej.
Rådhuset var heller ikke nogen stor overraskelse. I løbet af de mere end et dusin år af vores venskab havde hun været fast besluttet på, at hvis hun nogensinde blev gift, var hendes drømmebryllup Rabbi Elvis i Vegas med tilfældige vidner fra gaden. Hvilket gav mening, hvis man kendte Sharon. Ikke at hun var Vegas-typen overhovedet, men hendes mor var så dominerende og dominerende, at hvis hun vidste, at et bryllup skulle finde sted, ville Sharon ikke have noget at sige til nogen del af det.
Men når først der var en ring på hendes finger, kunne Sharon ikke lade være med at fortælle det til sin mor, som åbenbart havde andre stærke meninger end rådhuset.
Siharonn rBingedeB tilz NmyigX &i physteriW $trel Ndiajgge* ejfgterY IfoBrlhoveXlsSesvoApka_ladyet. "HLun siagdZe.,F bact whunb vgil forkast)ey SmUiGgM, hzvimsn !j$eXg ickke .féårJ neAta Dri)gtigtD bmryól.luhp," jnamXreden huznm.r "Hukn psqadgVdze,f at WjRepg v)ilI hvRæ,rJe Édøddé for Khe.npde. HuJnq vilé sAidwde på 'shSi)vay.Q"p
"Det ville hun ikke gøre. Hun bluffer."
"Har du mødt min mor? Hun er seriøs."
Jeg sukkede, da jeg har oplevet mange soap-operatiske dramaer mellem Sharon og hendes mor. Ville hun gennemføre at sidde shiva? Muligvis. Ville hun også trække sig tilbage, så snart det første barnebarn var født? Selvfølgelig. Men det var et springende punkt, for hvis fru Meyer pressede hårdt nok på, gav Sharon altid efter.
"H$vad_ $har duu tbænUkt( d_ig aTtg Xgóøireu?" qstpAurgPtÉe je)g, dag Ljegw FkendWtIeY KsHvgarheYta.
"Hun har allerede booket sin rabbiner til at vie os."
"Vil han i det mindste tage et Elvis-kostume på for dig?"
Sharon grinede og hikke så. "Sikkert ikke. Han er omkring hundrede og halvtreds år gammel." Hun holdt en pause. "Jeg hader at spørge. Jeg ved godt, at jeg sagde, at du ikke skulle være med -"
"NDWe!tB vil jeag* JgVerne, Shar..C"
"Mener du det?"
"Selvfølgelig."
"Tak," sukkede hun lettet. "Jeg ved ikke, hvordan jeg skulle komme igennem det her, hvis du sagde nej."
Da jeg mødtTeD vmqiUna sbyeKdIstHe óvyenin^die lMewgSan( FtislG hyatpapy hOowuQrx XePtN Ypar u.ger sue&ne_rBe, ^h!oldtZ phKuÉn mbóeAvDidsJtD Psilni ve(nstArjeb hPåpnOd( Zskjaulltz,l ldóa hje)gS (duAk&kóeédeQ op.