I’m still here with you. I haven’t gone anywhere, but I will. You only have to ask. But this, this is what death should feel like, what it should have felt like.
My body started to convulse as reality slowly danced back in. Breathing became excruciating because I was sobbing. A few words returned home, and I confessed to my angel, over and over... I killed my brother.
“Olivia.”
The voice floated through the fog again, only this time it was closer. I recognized it. The voice belonged to him—my shadow, my beautiful angel. Everything came into focus again, hard and fast. I knew where I was and who was holding me. We were in the bathtub. I was weeping, without restraint. I wanted to feel embarrassment and shame, but I didn’t have the strength to muster it. So I curled into him, resting my head on his chest to listen to the slow rhythm of his heart as he pressed a kiss into my hair.
“Drake?”
“Shhh... I’m here. You’re all right. I have you.”
His hand caressed my cheek again. I interlaced my fingers with his and pressed his palm closer to my face. The bathwater was freezing, causing the aches in my muscles to intensify. I started shivering, my teeth chattering violently. Drake rose from the tub, taking me with him. Lifting me from the frigid water did little to stop the shivers. He whipped a towel off the rack, wrapping it around me. I looked back at the big soaker tub. I’d been fantasizing about taking a bath with him in it since the moment I saw it. This... was not what I’d had in mind.
He folded me into his body, running his hands up and down my back, trying to warm me, but I continued to shake. He reached over my shoulder and pulled a fluffy, white bathrobe from a hook on the wall. Wrapping it tightly around me, he tied the belt around my waist. The robe was entirely too big and hung almost to my ankles, but it was warm.
I crossed my arms over my chest, to control the shudders still wracking my body from the cold and fear. Despite the warmth of the robe, it was no use. Drake was still completely nude, but he didn’t seem much concerned by it, keeping all his focus on me. He swept me up again and carried me to the bed, where he pulled the covers up over me. In the blink of an eye, he disappeared, but before I had time to panic, he returned to wrap another blanket around my shoulders.
It took a little while longer before the shivering subsided, and I began to feel toasty warm again. He sat on the bed next to me, his gaze intense and full of worry. Departure Dreams are a closely guarded secret with the Revenants. So, unless you are one, chances are you’d know little to nothing about the dreams, or what to expect when they happened. Poor Drake had just taken a crash course, without explanation, so it was no wonder he looked so concerned.
He took my face in his hands and I leaned into the warmth. “Are you warm now?” His voice was soft and comforting as it broke through the silence. I nodded my head and he rose off the bed.
I wanted to grab him and make him stay. I feared if he went too far away, I’d get lost again. But not letting him up was selfish because while I was cozied up and warm, he was still wet and naked.
As he walked across the room, I watched with entertained interest. Even in my post-departure dream haze, I still enjoyed the view of his backside, and was thoroughly disappointed when he was partially clothed again. He pulled the drawstring of the pajama pants tight, before taking a seat next to me on the bed once more.
I knew he waited for an explanation, but I didn’t know what to say. I haven’t been in any kind of relationship since I died... nothing substantial anyway. Mostly, a one-night stand here or there, sometimes a fling would stretch out a few weeks, but that was it. So, sleepovers weren’t really a concern before. It never occurred to me a departure dream could hit while I wasn’t safe at home in my own bed. To make matters worse, the aftermath of this one was bad, worse than usual, and very disorienting. If it had happened at home, I could ask Tore exactly what happened. He’d witnessed enough of these stupid things that he’d be able to point out any changes right away. But, as it stood, I was going to have to ask Drake, without him even really knowing himself.
“Olivia, what the hell just happened to you?”
“Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing.” My throat was so sore. “You go first.”
I figured if I let him tell me what happened, I’d know what to fill in and which horrible details to avoid. I know that was terrible, but we’d been “together” a touch over twenty-four hours. I didn’t think it was the appropriate time in our relationship to divulge all the nasty little secrets of my life, unless I had to.
“You woke up screaming. I tried to reassure you it was just a nightmare, but couldn’t get you to stop,” Drake continued, “Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, you just stopped. Just like that,” he snapped his fingers, “but, you wouldn’t speak. It was as if you were in a trance and nothing I could do would bring you around. You didn’t move at all, just stared ahead for hours.”
“I... what?” Everything I remembered seemed to flow linearly but that apparently wasn’t the case. I tried to cover my shock as best I could, so he’d continue.
“Yeah, I didn’t know what the hell to do. So I broke my promise.”
“What promise?”
“That I wouldn’t ensorcell you again.”
Oh, that one... aww, shit. “What did you see?”
“I’m so sorry, but nothing else was working. I was desperate.”
“It’s all right, but what did you see?” I wasn’t angry with him. I understood because, if I’d been in his place, I probably would have done the same thing. It still left me wondering how much I was going to have to explain.
He took a deep breath and shocked the hell out of me, again.
“That’s the spooky part, nothing. I saw nothing. It was this expansive void, but...” He took ahold of my hand. “I felt pain, your pain. Not physical but emotional and it was consuming.”
Holy shit. What in the hell had happened to me?
I was at a total loss, but one thing I knew for sure, Drake had somehow pulled me back from wherever I’d gone.
I looked down at our fingers laced together. The lines blurred as my eyes filled with tears. My mind was racing, trying to piece together the missing hours, but I was coming up empty. The whole event felt like mere moments to me.
He ran his hand through my hair. “Olivia, you’re scaring the hell out of me. Say something.”
What the hell was I going to say? Eh, just ignore the whole thing, it was no biggie. Somehow, I didn’t figure that was going to fly, so in a moment of possibly clouded emotional judgment, I decided to tell him the truth. Yet I feared, once he knew, he’d never look at me the same way again. I didn’t want that to change. In his eyes, I was beautiful, someone special and worthy of affection. But I had to allow him to see the whole picture, not just the pretty pieces I tried to display. He deserved to know what he was getting into, before things went too far. He had to be given the choice.
So, without meeting his eyes, keeping all my focus on our hands locked together, I launched into the gritty, and sometimes gory, details of departure dreams. By the time I came to the disgusting details of my death, tears were flowing pretty freely. I didn’t have the strength to tell the story and hold them back, so I didn’t even try. When I finished, I continued to look at our hands, waiting for the moment when he’d recoil, because I knew it had to be coming soon.
He reached out with his other hand, attempting to lift my chin, but I resisted. If everything was about to change, I didn’t want to see it happen. However, he was proving to be nothing if not persistent when I was being difficult. He wasn’t going to allow me to evade the inevitable.
“Olivia, look at me.”
I stopped fighting against him, raising my eyes to meet his, allowing me to see the damnedest thing. Nothing had changed. He was finally allowed to see the whole picture, not the photoshopped, glossy version that I’d been trying to present this whole time, but the flawed, knobby-knees version. Yet, there wasn’t even a hint of ju
dgment. Was he going to be the one to care about me unconditionally, even though I was such a mess? Why would I, of all people, be given such an amazing gift? And one that was in a sexy package as added bonus. It hardly seemed fair.
He leaned closer, laid a gentle kiss on my lips and, without another word, slid down into the bed, taking me with him. He wrapped me up tight against his body, with my back to his chest. I held onto him, but pressed my fingertips to my lips, trying to prevent the warmth of that one tiny kiss from ever escaping.
It started to rain at some point and the dawn was coming up grey. As I drifted back to sleep, content that I was safe in his embrace, a few thoughts flittered back into my conscience from that night. One, in particular, stood out.
He was beautiful, an angel come to save me.
Chapter 21
I slept most of the day, waking a few times, but always to find Drake lying next to me, watching me quietly with one arm draped over my waist and the other curled under his pillow. The slate of his eyes would shine when I would open mine, and he’d smile softly before I’d doze off again.
As the afternoon wore on, I was finally able to keep my eyes open, but I never left the comfort of his bed. He stayed beside me, only leaving a few times to make hot tea to soothe my throat or run down to the lobby when our take-out arrived. He ordered Greek from the little place I’d taken him to. He tried to pass it off as a kindness to me, to make me feel better, but I knew what was really up—he was addicted.
By early evening, I was in desperate need of a shower and a good teeth brushing. The latter I managed with relative ease, but the shower was another story. Every muscle screamed as I tried to move. After a few agonizing moments trying to remove the robe, yet refusing to ask for help, it finally slipped to the floor. Drake passed by the bathroom door. I saw the distress flash in his eyes when he saw the bruises all over my battered body, still lingering and refusing to fade, but he said nothing.
The water ran hot, pouring down over me. It was a struggle to get through the shower, but I managed. Drake came in, more than once, to see if he could help, but I shooed him off, telling him I was fine. He knew I was lying, but let me keep my pride. However, by the time I was out of the shower, I thought my pride could take a flying leap. I couldn’t lift my arms enough to get a comb through my hair. I slammed it down on the counter, in frustration. He appeared behind me, taking the comb.
I watched in the mirror as he worked the comb gently through my tangled, wet mop. He grimaced every time he hit a stubborn snarl, sucking air through his teeth and whispering apologies. When the comb was able to glide freely, he squeezed the excess water out with a towel. Then he held my shoulders as he peered over me at our reflection, kissed the top of my head, and disappeared out of the bathroom again.
I leaned on the counter, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. I hadn’t given one-hundred percent disclosure when I’d explained the departure dreams to him. I omitted the part where this was the first time I’d “checked-out”, or that this was the longest the bruising had been visible. I’d been seriously downplaying how much pain I was really in. I didn’t know what any of it meant and I was terrified. But I didn’t see any sense in freaking him out, as well.
I took one more deep breath, for good measure, flicked off the light, and found my way back to the sanctuary of his bed. I pulled the covers over my legs as he walked up the stairs, carrying two steaming mugs. He handed one to me and I stuck my face over it to inhale the earthy aroma of the herbs and sweet honey. If I’d learned anything all weekend, it was that Drake, being an Englishman, could make one hell of a cup of tea. I sipped it down and set the mug on the nightstand when I was finished.
The sun set and the gloaming of the evening had washed over the room. The little energy I had felt wasted sitting up, so I slipped back under the covers. Drake settled in next to me and I cuddled up with him again. He’d been my anchor all day, safe, strong, and reassuring. As we lay there, he traced tingly little paths down my back and up my arms. I felt so comfortable. Maybe a bit too comfortable, because, when I opened my mouth to speak, what came out shocked me.
“Drake, will you tell me about London?”
No denying it, it was a bullshit request I laid at his feet. There was no acceptable answer as to why I’d done it. Sure, I was curious about his past, but I never wanted to force the issue of him telling me. Maybe I asked because he knew my deepest, darkest secret, therefore, making me feel vulnerable and exposed, and I wanted him there with me. Or, I asked without giving it any thought, simply wanting to hear his voice. Whatever the case may have been, it was out there now, waiting for his response.
His fingers stopped their tingly paths and his hand came to a rest on my shoulder. There was no question he knew what I was asking for. I didn’t want a geography lesson or a history lesson on England, I wanted his history. I wanted to know why he was so tortured. I wanted him to bare his soul, as I bared mine. Although, I hadn’t meant to, I used the current situation to manipulate him. I was disgusted with myself. He sighed and, just as I was about to recant, he began.
Chapter 22
“I guess the story would begin when I was getting ready to go to university. Anything before that seems inconsequential. What could be said about it, really? I was born into a wealthy family. My mother was the hands-off socialite, and my father was an ambitious, abusive, prat.
“The night before I left for London, my father and I argued over my course of study. In the beginning, I hadn’t fought or questioned the notion of going. I saw a chance to get out from under my father’s ever-ruling thumb and have a small taste of freedom, but I could not have been more wrong. I deluded myself into believing my life was my own. I wanted to become an art history major. I was a romantic dreamer wanting to study the greats, perhaps work in a museum where I could become lost amongst Monet, De Vinci, and Van Gogh. However, my father had other plans for my future.
“As the only boy in the family, he rode me hard and, even though I had a fair amount of talent for art, he decided I’d follow in his footsteps as a lawyer. I strongly opposed the decision and hoped my mother, who’d encouraged and nurtured my artistic side, would rally for me, but I received no support from her. Only a weak comment that art was a fine hobby, but not a career.
“I tried to stand my ground against my father, but only received a black eye for my efforts and the, not-so-gentle, reminder I needed to put duties to my family above my “selfish” wants and needs. My father had political aspirations and, essentially, there were no benefits for him if I were to have a career in the field of fine art.
“So I did as I was told, enrolling in classes that would propel me into the rewarding career of law. However, I was required to take a few elective courses to round out my curriculum and I filled those with every art class available. So I complied with my father’s wishes, while getting a little something out of it for myself. Well, that’s not entirely true. It was in one of those art courses I met Cleo.
“The first day of university was stressful. I got lost and wound up fifteen minutes late to my first course. I attempted to sneak in and shrink down in the only available seat at the back of the room. I didn’t go undetected and the professor gave me the stink eye. I whispered my apologies and tried to remain invisible for the rest of the afternoon.
“When class ended, I waited for the herd of fellow students to thin, before I got up to leave. It was at this time I first saw her. She was a classic beauty, with wavy, black hair, that fell just at the shoulder and dark brown eyes. She was wearing a black and white polka-dot dress, which showed off her curves. I was totally smitten the moment I laid eyes on her. I’ll never forget the first words she ever spoke to me. If looks could kill, huh? She had been talking about the professor, but I thought it was a fitting statement otherwise.
“From that day on, I always tried to sit near her. We got to know each other and became good chums but, much to my chagrin, she was already involved with someone else. The guy was a total twat. T
heir relationship was unstable during the best of times and I was always the shoulder she cried on when he treated her like shit. They were on and off again for a few years, but finally called it quits for good in the spring of ‘32, giving us the opportunity to become more than friends.
“Cleo was a free spirit and often complained about being born a decade too late, wishing she could have experienced the Roaring Twenties. She was very opinionated and came from a forward-thinking family. She challenged me at every turn, every thought. Even though some days I found her frustrating, I knew her insistence for me to really consider my stances, shaped me into a better person. At the beginning, she was so easy to laugh and I was so in love with her.
“In May of that year, we’d only considered ourselves a couple for about a month, but I proposed anyway. My father strongly disapproved of the marriage but, true to her carefree nature, Cleo suggested we elope. One week after I popped the question, we marched down to the courthouse and got married.
“Afterwards, we took an extended honeymoon to Paris. We spent the summer touring museums, sipping wine and cappuccinos, but mostly just behaving like two crazy people in love. That fall, we returned to London and moved into a lavish flat my father purchased for us as a wedding gift.”
...
“Wait, I thought your father didn’t approve of your marriage?”
“He didn’t, until he learned her father was a well-connected banker, at which point, he welcomed her into the family with open arms.”
“Classy.”
“Yeah, that’s one way to put it. Where was I?”
“Lavish flat.”
“Right, the place was in a posh neighborhood and everything seemed perfect. Cleo was ecstatic about our new home, but I knew there were bound to be some hidden strings attached. I never let on. Far be it from me to dampen her happiness with my daddy issues, right?
“We both intended to return to school and, while I didn’t enjoy the majority of it, I wanted to return to my art courses. However, Cleo’s father offered me a job. Although banking interested me about as much as law, I felt obligated to take the position. My future had been, once again, decided on my behalf, leaving me feeling that I’d traded one prison for another.
Prayer for the Dead (Revenants in Purgatory) Page 16