Coveted

by Tara K. Young

  Chapter 11

  The last two weeks before the concert passed too slowly with little reprieve. The last of Mrs. Montgomery's sanity had finally fled. Dark circles had formed under her eyes and I was beginning to suspect she was staying up every night to torture herself with the recordings she had made.

  The rest of school hadn't stopped to accommodate her demands either. There were chemistry and French tests to study for and more English papers to write. I had to squeeze all my other schoolwork into the remaining hour before bed after coming home exhausted every night.

  Even if I had had any time to spend alone with Bran, it wouldn't have mattered. My mother had been given time off work. Her boss had noticed the recent spate of cruelty cases had taken their toll. She was spending most of her time sitting in the kitchen reading, walking Riley, or watching Fred.

  I blamed being overworked for not telling my mother about the latest development between Bran and I. And really, I was doing her a favour by not adding to her stress. She liked Bran but I was not sure how well those positive feelings would hold when he was no longer the gentlemanly friend but instead the ravenous boyfriend.

  Her first night back to work was the Saturday before the concert. It was long after dinner when Mrs. Montgomery finally relented and allowed us to pack up.

  "The concert is Wednesday night," she announced at the end as if we didn't already know that. "We will have a proper rehearsal in the gym tomorrow, Monday, and Tuesday. I also want you to come to the gym during lunch on Wednesday to fit in one last run through."

  We all muttered or groaned our belligerent assent as we put away our instruments and music. I was looking forward to collapsing on the couch. I had finished my homework that morning and needed some time to let my brain recharge.

  Bran drove me home and we arrived just as I saw my mother locking the door.

  "Exciting plans for tonight?" She asked as we walked up.

  "TV. Sleep," I moaned.

  She smiled. "I'll see you before you leave for school in the morning."

  I tried to nod but my head moved in more of a flop. She waved good-bye and I waved back before letting us inside. I could feel my eyelids drooping.

  "You don't look like you'll make it through any TV," Bran said as he hung up his coat.

  My eyes closed involuntarily. My protest never made it past my lips.

  The next thing I knew, my feet were off the floor and I was being carried down the hall. I was too tired to express surprise or any complaint. I let my head fall against Bran's shoulder. Even the gnawing's attack could not rejuvenate me. I let the flames have their way with my organs. It did not matter the discomfort they caused. I was powerless to fight.

  "I'll come get you in the morning," Bran said as he entered my room.

  "Don't go," I whimpered.

  His chest shuddered with a chuckle. "If you insist."

  He set me gently upon the bed before sliding in himself. He leaned his back against the wall. I wrapped my arms around him as best I could while resting my head on his thigh. The gnawing had its talons and was shrieking but even it was getting tired or maybe I was just getting used to it. It was not increasing in intensity like when we had made out. Perhaps sanity with Bran was possible.

  Riley trotted into the room, jumped on the bed—crushing my legs in the process—and tried to find a space to drop. Disgusted with the lack of comfortable options, he heaved a sigh, jumped off the bed, and left the room.

  I giggled. Exhaustion made me delirious.

  Bran stroked my hair and my mind wandered over the memories of his shirtless body. The temptation kept me awake. My exhaustion ensured I could not act. I sighed. Sleep would not be so easily gotten after all. I decided to indulge in the memory instead. His body had been amazing but it had not been flawless.

  "How did you get all those scars?" I asked.

  "I had a bit of a rough upbringing back in Scotland," he said. "Have you read any more of that book I gave you?"

  I groaned into his side. "No. I've been too busy and, to be honest, I don't want to read about someone hacking off a hundred heads. It's gross."

  He was quiet. "You're really that opposed to giving it a try?" he pressed. "You grew to like Doctor Who. Maybe you'd grow to like this too."

  "Fine," I pouted. "It's in the nightstand. Why don't you read some to me?" I made the suggestion mostly because I knew I would fall asleep anyway and my tactic would keep him appeased while letting me sleep through most of it.

  He slid the drawer open and reached inside. For a moment, I didn't think he could see it in the dark. He remained completely still. "It should be right on top," I added. He was silent and still. "Bran?" I asked. When he still did not move, I pushed up to look at him. His face was blank; his eyes unfocused. His breathing was speeding up. "Bran?" I started to shake his shoulders. "Bran? What's wrong? Bran? Bran?"

  He jumped and blinked down at me. He was nearly hyperventilating. His skin had gone pale. His eyes were those of a caged animal.

  I could feel my own chest constricting. "What's wrong?"

  He looked away from me without a word. He turned on my bedside lamp and looked down into the drawer. He blinked several times.

  "What was that?" He asked breathlessly.

  My eyes widened. "It happened to you too, didn't it?" I wasn't crazy or hallucinating. There was something strange about that stone after all.

  He looked at me sharply. "What did you see?"

  He seemed angry but I was just relieved. "Nothing. I could hear a man promising to protect me and feel him near me. That was it. Michael thought I was crazy and imagined it. I thought he was right. What did you see?"

  He visibly swallowed. "The worst memory of my life as if I were reliving it." He looked into my eyes before reaching out to caress my arm. The promise of a smile teased the corner of his mouth but the pain in his eyes never allowed it loose. "You're here."

  I nodded, unsure of what to say.

  Then he threw his arms around me and held me close. Even the strength of the gnawing was no match for my confusion.

  "Never again," he whispered over and over in my ear.

  "Are you going to be alright?" I asked.

  I wished I knew what to say to him or how to help him. I had no idea and it felt like an intrusion to press him to recall something that so obviously tortured him. Exactly how rough had his upbringing been?

  He kept me in his embrace. I waited, feeling completely inadequate to help in the situation. The tags of Riley's collar jingled as she sauntered from the couch down to my mother's room.

  "Dove, where did you get that stone?" he asked after several moments. His voice was quiet but there was a harsh twinge of urgency to it.

  "It was a birthday present," I explained.

  "Who gave it to you?" The urgency was stronger.

  I would have looked into his eyes but he was hugging me too tightly and showed no sign of releasing me soon.

  "No idea. It was on the front step waiting for me. It had a weird note on the box asking me to remember. I don't know what I am supposed to remember. Michael thought it was prank from Amanda and Samantha to scare me."

  He released me and looked back down at the open drawer. Wrapping the end of his t-shirt around his hand, he picked up the stone to examine it.

  "You need to touch it with skin?" I asked, trying to make sense of the gesture.

  He nodded.

  "How did you figure that out?"

  He looked down his nose at it. "It reacted when I touched it with my fingers but does nothing just sitting in the drawer right next to us." He tilted it to look at the etchings in the light. He raised an eyebrow.

  "What is it?"

  "Remember how we talked about past lives," he said, still examining it. His fingers were shaking.

  My eyes went wide. "This thing gets you to remember your past lives?"

  He turned it over again. "I'm thinking it does something like that." He held it out and pointed to the spiral. "This is a very an
cient symbol, even older... It represents the spiral of time, the line is one's path through it. Each time the line crosses a spiral is a life." He pointed at the runes. "And this is an old Scandinavian name: Smudan."

  I blinked up at him. "How do you know that?"

  He shrugged. "History is my best subject."

  "So we are remembering past lives when we touch it?"

  He nodded. "Anything from your past, even if it is from this life." He looked at me for a moment without speaking. "You don't think I'm crazy, do you?"

  I shook my head. "Don't ever mention this to Michael. He'll have us both locked up but now that you had it happen too, I know I didn't imagine it."

  He set the stone back down in the drawer. His hand was still shaking. "Look, I need to go. We've got a big week ahead of us and I need sleep. We can talk more about this tomorrow."

  He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and walked out the door. I sat staring at the empty space he had left, trying to make sense of his abrupt departure. Had this whole thing scared him off? Hadn't he been the one to suggest it was a magical stone that could recall past lives? Whatever he had remembered must have been pretty bad.

  I swallowed hard and looked down at the rock resting benignly in the drawer. I needed to know why he had fled. I had no idea how to make it show me what I wanted. I needed to know who Smudan was. It might not even be possible to control it but there was a chance it would listen. I reached out and wrapped my fingers around its cold surface.

  My heart threatened to flutter out of my throat. My face was covered in tears. I did not breath only because I dared not.

  A large, naked man stood with his back to me. I wanted to worship him but held back. The sword in his hand was gripped too tightly. It was not safe to go to him. His sword came down hard, truncating the curse gasped by his opponent. The attacker's head dropped and rolled. His eyes still wide and unblinking. The naked man turned to me, a knotwork dove rippling over his ribs as he moved.

  Kneeling down, he cupped my chin in his hand. The colour of his eyes swirled both blue and green. "You are safe, my dove," he whispered.

  He vanished into the darkness of my room as the stone thunked onto the carpet.

  The dove. It was the same dove but it had not been the same face. He had been different. I swallowed. But he had been Bran.

  My heart was still pounding too strongly for me to handle the stone again. The terror in the memory was so thorough that it was my terror of the present. I dared not touch it. I could not handle returning to that place of death.

  I sat staring at the innocent looking stone for several minutes. When my heart rate began to slow, I rested my head on my pillow. I could not get the knotwork dove out of my mind. I could not get the sight of someone's head rolling around on the ground like a soccer ball or the strange face of Bran out of my mind. With the blood around us, as much as I had wanted him in the vision, the memory of that dove terrified me as much as that of the decapitation.