Between Worlds

Chapter 1: Between Worlds

Andy came awake in total panic, clawing at the sheets as if he had been dropped in the middle of a live wire. The nightmare—Laura, the water, the unreachable hand—vanished in a blinding wash of sensation. There was no transition; just one reality gutting itself into another, violent as the ripping of a heart.

It took a long moment for him to process what was wrong. He was not in his bed. The familiar, lumpy mattress he couldn’t be bothered to replace had vanished, replaced by something both more rigid and somehow softer, a kind of massive white sea. His head was nestled among soft, fluffy pillows. The sheets were so smooth they felt frictionless, a continuous, bottomless ocean of silk - white for the bottom sheet, purple for the top sheet. He nearly slid off the edge trying to right himself. The pillows alone probably cost more than his old sofa.

Andy sat up, breathing ragged. He pawed at the covers, half expecting to find himself naked, but he was in a pair of silk pajamas the same deep color as the bedding. The shirt was buttoned up to the second button, the sleeves perfectly tailored, the pants loose and comfortable. He had never owned pajamas this nice, and certainly not this shade. A headache was blooming at the base of his skull. He squeezed his temples and looked around, hoping for some marker of reality—his half-read, well-thumbed books, his phone, anything at all. There was nothing. A sudden spike of fear, and his right hand went to his left wrist. With a gasp of relief, his fingers traced the beads of the friendship bracelet. An anchor, at least. Gathering himself, he looked around.

The room was gigantic, maybe fifty feet at its widest, almond-shaped, with a soaring ceiling painted in a swirl of cream and gold, divided by lines so perfectly sharp he thought they must have been stenciled by robots. The walls alternated between panels of white stucco and pale, lustrous wood, polished until they caught and reflected the light. There was a soft golden glow coming from sconces arranged in geometric patterns, but the real illumination came from the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the entire curved wall to his left.

He half-staggered, half-glided over the rug (thick, circular, just as purple as his bed, maybe actual wool) to the glass. The world outside was not Scarsdale. Not even close. The view from the windows was a vertical drop down a cliff blanketed in some kind of rainforest—palms, ferns, orchids clinging to stone—then rolling out into an island with white-sand beaches and a shockingly blue bay. In the shadow of the cliff, he could see a series of low, modernist buildings sprawled along the slope, all glass and white concrete, glowing in the morning sun. There were no streets, no cars, just boardwalks and green paths and—were those cabanas? This was either the best, or worst dream Andy had ever had.

He pressed his palms and forehead to the window, expecting a hot film of greenhouse air, but the glass was cool and perfectly clear, almost not there at all. Outside, the wind caressed the palm fronds around in slow, dramatic arcs, and now and then unfamiliar birds of impossible colors, with giant rounded beaks and oddly colored feathers, shot by in a streak of motion. No city noise, not even the ghost of it. Only the hush of wind and, faintly, the distant sound of surf.

Andy pulled back from the window, suddenly and crushingly aware that the only thing he wore that felt like his was the friendship bracelet. Somehow, it had stayed on his wrist through everything, the little bead letters faded and dirty and almost too tight. He was relieved. If this was a dream, at least that one thing had followed him here.

He turned in a circle, taking in the rest of the bedroom. The absurdly wide whitewood bed, with a quilted purple headboard, was the focal point. Whoever had designed this room had clearly a thing for purple textiles. To one side, a pair of sleek double doors made of frosted glass stood half-open, revealing a private lounge with low-slung red sofas, a bar cart, and a television the size of a Smart car. The whole place smelled faintly of ocean and orchids, overlaying a base note of very expensive wood.

He staggered over to the nightstand: white wood, subtly inlaid with gold, held only two objects: a single perfect long-stemmed red rose in a narrow crystal vase, and a cream-colored card, folded in half and embossed in gold foil with the same “HH” logo from the letter he had shown Sam the previous night. The effect was so studied, so perfect, that Andy had to suppress a snort. He was suddenly and deeply convinced he was being pranked.

With a nervous laugh, he picked up the card and folded it open. It was heavy as a wedding invitation, and bore only two words in elegant, perfect handwriting:

Welcome, Andy!

That was it. No instructions. No room service menu.

He flipped the card over, looking for a secret code or a hidden message, but there was nothing. He set it back down, hands trembling slightly.

The pajamas were real. The room was real. The whole thing was way, way too real. He pinched the skin of his forearm, once, hard, the way he had when he was a kid and wanted to escape a nightmare. He winced at the pain. Real. He even left a white mark that slowly faded back to pink.

He crossed back to the window. The buildings he’d seen before, the ones sprawled at the base of the cliff, must have been part of “The HH”. It was a world away from New York, or anything he’d ever seen.

“What the actual fuck,” Andy said, testing the air, and the sound of his voice, and finding both thin and slightly unreal. He shook his head, tried to think. He had gone to bed in his apartment, after drinking some beers and talking with Sam. He’d had the nightmare, like always, but more vivid, more… visceral. And it was not enough to explain this.

He turned, and his eye was drawn again to the card on the nightstand. He picked it up, tracing the “HH” logo with a thumb. He remembered the letter Sam had read—the high-gloss, mysterious invitation. Was this… was this the place? Had he somehow ended up at the “once-in-a-lifetime getaway at The HH”?

He had never accepted. He had never even responded.

He walked to the window again, staring at the line of horizon, the ocean dark against the bright sky. He pressed his fingers to the glass. It was so, so real.

He whispered, “How did I get to The HH?” and felt the words drop into a void.

A chill passed through him. Andy pinched himself one more time, harder. It hurt like hell. Nothing changed. “Okay,” he said, to no one, “This isn’t a dream.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, legs unsteady, and stared at the rose, and the card, and the view beyond. For the first time in years, Andy Cooper had absolutely no idea what to do next.

A gentle chime roused him from his increasingly bleak thoughts. The polite ding of an elevator, followed by the crisp, percussive click of high heels.

He looked up, and there she was, standing in the archway of the lounge, framed by the curve of the wood and the silken light behind her. She was a few inches shorter than him, and she wore a cocktail dress the same color as the rose by his nightstand, tight in the places that mattered, with a neckline that plunged in a way that he was sure was illegal somewhere. Her hair was thick, deep auburn, glossy to a fault, and it fell in waves around her shoulders. Her eyes were emerald green, sparkling like gemstones. They did not look young, but her face did.

She held a breakfast tray, perfectly balanced, with one delicate hand. On the tray, incongruously, sat a carafe of orange juice, a steaming French press, a glass of water, and a white plate covered with a silver dome. She wore the kind of vertiginously high heels he had only ever seen on magazines or some of those videos he had tried to enjoy in college. Her other hand rested, elegantly, on her hip.

“Good morning, Andy,” she said with a warm smile, her voice a smooth, mid-Atlantic purr that managed to sound posh and amused at the same time. Not quite British—too unplaceable. “I do hope you slept well.”

Andy, still perched on the edge of the bed, went entirely blank. He looked at the woman. He looked at the tray. He looked back at the woman.

She advanced, crossing the rug like she owned gravity. Despite the size of the tray, its weight, and the slenderness of her finger, the juice and water didn’t even ripple. “Forgive the intrusion, but I thought you might be hungry. You had a… trying journey, after all.” She set the tray on a low side table by the bed, then turned to survey him, her gaze lingering with deliberate, appreciative slowness on his silk pajamas. He blinked. Had that side table always been there?

He found his tongue. “Who the—”

She smiled, not at all apologetic. “Arabella. You can call me Arabella.” She curtsied, and he felt a stirring in his pants when she gave him a glimpse of her abundant cleavage. She rose up and paused, her head cocked slightly. “Or, if you prefer, your Host and Curator. Whichever is easier to remember, so long as you remember.”

He could not tell if she was making fun of him or just didn’t care about normal conversational rules.

Arabella moved to the window, then pivoted neatly on one heel to face him again. “I thought it best to let you rest, and let you acclimate. But you must have questions. Shall we start with something to eat?”

Andy, against his better judgment, realized he was starving. He reached for the plate, almost on autopilot, and uncovered an arrangement of pastries and fruit that looked like it belonged in a food magazine, or in a challenge of Top Chef. Still eyeing her warily, he broke off a croissant and took a bite.

Arabella watched him eat, her arms folded underneath her significant breasts. “Is it to your taste? The kitchen is very proud of their Viennoiserie, but it’s your feedback that truly matters.”

He chewed, then: “Where am I? How did I get here? Why am I—”

She lifted a finger with another bright smile, eyes twinkling. “One at a time, if you please. It’s a lot to process.” She reached for the French press and poured him a cup, then handed it over as if she’d done it a thousand times.

Andy took it, more out of politeness than actual desire, and burned his tongue. He winced, but the flavor was dark and rich, and he could almost taste the caffeine. “Okay,” he managed. “Let’s start with… how do you know my name?”

Arabella’s movements were impossibly graceful, almost balletic as she crossed the room and stood before him, one hand on a hip, the other one touching her collarbone. She ignored his question for a moment, instead regarding the bracelet on his wrist. The smile that flickered across her lips was softer, almost private.

“I know many things,” she said. “It is my job, after all. To know what brings a honored guest joy, or comfort, or—” her eyes darted to his, “—what they most need, though they might not say it aloud. You may find that unsettling, but I assure you, Andy, it’s always done in service.”

He made a frustrated noise, tried again. “Are you… with the resort? Is this part of the ‘The HH experience’?”

She laughed, a low, rippling sound. “Isn’t everything, in the end? But yes, Andy, this is The HH. You are, at this moment, in the Master’s Suite..”

Andy ate two more bites of the croissant, then **** himself to set it down. He remembered the picture he had seen online. The Master’s Suite was the spaceship-looking curved structure built on the side of the extinct volcano. That would explain the view. “Did I win some sort of contest?”

Arabella considered him for a beat, then rose, smoothing her dress with a gesture that drew the fabric tight against her hips. “No contest. Nothing so vulgar as that.” She walked a few paces, then turned. “You’re here because you were chosen. I’ve waited long for you, Andy Cooper.”

He laughed, not sure what else to do. “Do you say that to every guest?”

She tilted her head with a bright smile, not missing a beat. “Only the ones who need to hear it.”

There was a silence. Andy tried to assemble some kind of strategy, but his brain felt like someone had poured three bottles of gin through it. “You’re not going to tell me how I got here, are you.”

She looked delighted. “What would be the fun in that? Discovery is at the very heart of this delightful resort. And I know you are, if nothing else, a creature of curiosity.” Her eyes flicked again to his wrist. “You’re also very loyal. That’s rarer than you think, Andy.”

He looked down at the bracelet, then back up. “Are you a therapist? Some sort of… New Age spiritual guide?”

Her lips curled, not quite a smile. “I am many things. Today, and for the foreseeable future, I’m your Host.” She swept another little curtsy, the motion exaggerated enough to be mocking, except there was an odd sincerity in her eyes. “Welcome, Master. Welcome to the Harem Hotel.”

Andy blinked. “I’m sorry, the… Harem Hotel?”

She sighed, as if this was a conversation she’d had with recalcitrant children. “It’s a bold name, isn’t it? Admittedly, I didn’t pick it. But the role is a noble one, in its own way.” She ran her hand down the length of her body, slow, as if smoothing an invisible wrinkle. “You are, for now, the center of our universe. There are others, of course, but you’re the one I’ve been waiting for.”

He was suddenly aware that he had eaten the entire croissant and most of a pain au chocolat. There was orange juice, too, and he downed a glass in one gulp. Arabella made no move to pour herself any.

She leaned forward, and suddenly Andy found himself looking straight into her cleavage. “You must have so many questions. And I promise, in time, you’ll have all the answers that matter. But there’s so much more to experience. Would you care for a tour?”

He was not sure if he had a choice, but the words tumbled out. “Uh… who put me in these pajamas?”

Arabella’s eyes widened innocently, just a little. “Are they not to your liking? I thought you might appreciate the fabric. Silk is… forgiving, especially after a difficult journey.” She pursed her lips. “But if you’d rather wear something else, we can arrange that. It’s your comfort that matters, after all.”

He stood, shaking out his arms, trying to summon whatever authority a man in silk pajamas could summon after being kidnapped by a woman who seemed to have stepped out of a fashionable porn magazine. At his full height he actually looked down on Arabella, but she seemed entirely unaffected by the difference. “Look, Arabella, or whatever your real name is, this is all very… ” he gestured at the room, the pajamas, the window, “elaborate. I’m not complaining. But I need you to be straight with me. How did I get here? What am I supposed to do?”

She closed the distance between them in three steps, her heels not making a sound on the rug. She was close enough that he could smell her perfume, something floral with a dark, resinous undertone. One perfectly manicured hand came to rest on his chest. Unexplicably, he was drawn to the fact her fingernails were painted with transparent nailpolish. He would have expected red. But her touch was electrifying, and her emerald eyes drew his attention. “Andy. You are here because you are the very heart of this grand endeavor. I promise you, the rest will become clear, so long as you don’t run away from it.”

He swallowed, acutely aware of her proximity. “And if I do run?”

Her smile was a challenge. “Then the game is over before it starts. But I have faith in you. I’ve watched you for a long time.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she placed two fingers gently against his lips. “Shhh. Not everything is meant to be explained at once. That would spoil the fun.”

She stepped back, gesturing to the window and the wild, impossible beauty beyond. “The world awaits you. This place, these people—there is so much to experience. To discover. To transform.”

Andy put his hands on his hips, frustrated and weirdly energized. “Fine. Can I at least get some pants?”