While her mom chattered, with occasional baritone input from her dad, Soleil ate the banana. She opened the trash can to throw the peel in and almost groaned aloud. It was packed to the brim, and smelly. Putting the phone on speaker, she set it on the counter while she tied up the trash bag. Then, with the phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder, she staggered to the back door, kneeing Carebear gently so he would stay inside.
The backyard was dark and chilly, a far cry from the sun-soaked refuge it had seemed this morning when she laid out her blanket. An entire day lost, and for what? She felt worse than she had when she began the recovery trance.
She carried the trash bag to the front corner of the back yard, near the gate, where the large rolling trash bin hunched like an ugly green troll in the shadows. She heaved up the lid of the bin and tossed the bag inside. As the lid clunked down again, she heard something on the other side of the fence—a distinct snap and crunch, like an errant footstep.
Soleil froze, gripping the phone. She should have let Carebear come out here with her. The fence was tall—perfect for privacy during her sunbathing sessions—but the gate only had a latch, no lock. She wasn’t concerned about anyone disturbing her privacy during the trances, since Carebear was fierce enough to scare off any daytime intruders—but with the darkness swathing the corners of the yard and the eerie shrilling of crickets in the bushes, Soleil would have felt more secure with a sturdy lock between her and whatever had made thatcrunch.
For a second she thought of calling out, of saying, “Who’s there?” A silly impulse, because what self-respecting thief or murderer would reply, “Me! I’m here to assault you and take your stuff, and maybe kill you.”
“Soleil,ma chérie, are you listening?”
“Oui, Maman—un moment.” Soleil inched toward the back door, still eyeing the fence. Her jaw was beginning to ache, though she wasn’t sure why. She had almost reached the door when her mouth exploded with pain. Doubling over, clapping her hand to her jaw, she mouthed several ferocious swear words. Agony pulsed through her teeth—or was it one tooth? It felt like several, but she couldn’t be sure. Her gut churned with panic. Was this an aftereffect of messing up the recovery trance, of failing to fully recharge? She’d heard plenty of dire warnings about such carelessness. Her study materials had said nothing about mouth pain, though—or had they? Oh, hell.
“Maman, Papa, I need to let you go now,” she managed to gasp through the pain. “Stomach upset—ate some bad takeout—”
“Oh, no! I told you, you need to cook for yourself and eat at home! Cheaper, and healthier too!”
“Uh-huh, okay bye! Good talking to you, love you!” She ended the call and groped for the handle of the back door. She stumbled inside, past Cerberus, and hurried into the big bathroom that opened off her bedroom.
“Oh god, oh no.” A hideous spike of pain doubled her over for a second. Tears slid from beneath her lashes. She forced her eyes open and leaned over the sink, getting her mouth as close to the mirror as she could. After a bracing breath to prepare herself for whatever she was about to see, she opened her mouth.
One of her lower molars on the right side was nearly black, mottled with yellow and brown splotches. The gum around it was swollen—no,swelling, puffing up before her very eyes, growing more distended by the second, like a balloon ready to pop.
Horrified tears traced hot lines down her cheeks. She backed away, closed her eyes, and breathed. Then she looked again.
The tooth was still disease-ridden, and the gums were stretching tighter.
She’d gone too far with her magic. Failed to recover properly. And now she was paying for it.
She wanted to scream, but pain filled her mouth like blood.
She could try a remedy—but that was a nature witch’s realm of expertise. With her clumsy nature-magic skills, it would take her at least an hour to prepare everything, and even then there was no guarantee it would work.
She could sit around and wait for the worst to happen. Wait for her tooth to fall out.
Nope. Not an option. She needed medical attention. A doctor—no, a dentist. Someone who could treat the tooth, or remove it; someone who could give her medicine, antibiotics, help—
Soleil seized her phone and searched for local dentists. Only two listings showed up within fifteen miles. One of them, a Dr. Racklin’s office, had a plain webpage with office hours—no after-hours number. Soleil backtracked and checked the other dental clinic. There was an emergency number on the contact page—hyperlinked, thank god, because she didn’t think her shaking fingers could have entered the number correctly. Her entire skull throbbed with heat and tension, and a thin sheen of sweat glazed her forehead.
She pressed the link and waited, her lungs tight, bouncing on her feet in an effort to bear the agony in her mouth. There was a short message about calling 911 for medical emergencies, and then a male voice. “Dr. Gilliam here. How can I help you?”
“Are you real?” Soleil choked out through a sob. “You’re the doctor? I mean, the dentist?”
“What?”
“You’re not an answering service or some kind of bot chat thing?”
“I’m a dentist. Dr. Gilliam. Do you have a dental emergency?”
“Oh, yes, please, you have to help me—my tooth is—well, it’s turning black.” Soleil hiccupped a sob. “And there’s swelling—I’m afraid my gum’s going to explode—”
“Slow down, ma’am. You say your tooth is turning black? Have you had pain in this tooth before?”
“No!” Soleil’s voice shrilled beyond her control. “It justhappened, all of a sudden, and I—please, can I come to your office? Or do you do home visits? Anything, please. I need help.”
“Please ma’am. Try to breathe. I’ll meet you at the clinic.”
“Yes, yes. Good. Thank you!”