by Jen Printy
The corner of Leah’s mouth curves upward, and she shakes her head. “I haven’t even met Kemisi yet, and I know she and Artagan are friends,” she says, closing the laptop. “He was telling me about her. He absolutely trusts her. And don’t you see how his eyes light up every time he talks about her? I think he has a thing for her.”
I shake my head in disagreement. “No.”
“Why? Because of Amun?”
“It’s just not a possibility.”
Her animated expression drops. “Didn’t you say Artagan found the man who once was Amun, living in the Midwest or somewhere like that?”
“Yes, in Duluth.”
“Well, if nothing else, Kemisi and Artagan are close. I bet she’s told him everything. Of course, if that’s the case, that might mean Artagan’s right, and this is a life sentence.”
“I doubt she did. Not with their history.”
Leah’s eyes widen, brightening. “Artagan and Kemisi have history? I knew it. Spill!”
I raise my hands to slow the onslaught of questions I see brewing behind her eyes. “I don’t know much, and I haven’t overanalyzed it like I’m sure you’re about to do. All Artagan said was the romance ended on less than amicable terms.” I decide it’s best to skip the part about Death giving Artagan his scar to avenge his daughter’s honor. Although I have little doubt that Artagan deserved what he got, Leah’s already worried enough about the possibility of Death’s ability to eliminate immortals, namely me. No need to add fuel to the flame.
“Well, whatever happened, she must have forgiven him. Like you said, she’s moving in.”
“I couldn’t tell you. I am no expert on the workings of the female mind. Even after a hundred and seventy years, you ladies are still a mystery.”
Leah scowls, but there’s a glint of humor in her eyes.
“Anyway, maybe we can find a tidbit hidden in Amun’s story that no one deemed crucial. Something that will explain all this. Along with the use of Artagan’s book collection, perhaps we can assemble enough pieces to make a clearer picture. It’s a place to start, and who knows where that might take us.”
“But I’m not a soul immortal anymore. Why does it matter?”
“We don’t understand how any of this works. Because of that, we can’t dismiss anything. We have to chase down every lead.”
“Maybe.” Her face grows preoccupied, a small frown puckering her brow. “You better be careful. What if Death finds out? Nothing stupid, remember?”
Triggered by the first glimmer of hope we’ve seen in weeks, I feel playful, buoyant even. I wrap my arms around Leah’s waist. Then, in one fluid motion, I roll so I’m atop her, causing Leah to squeal. “I’ll behave.”
Leah looks up at me, a little breathless. “So, Mr. Hammond, what are you planning to do with me now?” One eyebrow quirks upward.
My cheeks grow warm, and I slide off her. I prop my head up on my elbow and leave my other hand resting across the concave dip of her abdomen. “Just don’t lose faith, love. Not yet,” I say, giving her a lopsided grin.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The next morning, not surprisingly, I wake alone. So as to abide by our compromise, after my playful shenanigans, Leah decided it would be best if she retired to her room for the rest of the night. Despite my secret wish for her to do otherwise, I agreed.
I roll my head on the pillow and open my eyes. The brightening dawn fills my room with a soft gray light. I lie quietly, hands folded behind my head, gazing out the window. A latticework of frost trims each pane, announcing winter’s impending arrival. Wind whips off the water, rattling the window casings. Stripped bare of their fiery leaves, maple branches bend and sway, a stark, silhouetted entanglement against the overcast sky. My mind wanders. Is it possible that buried in the secrets of Gladys’s life is some real promise? Or am I, like I told Leah, just clutching at straws, my wishful thinking in overdrive?
With Leah’s burdens only becoming heavier, I cannot allow hope to slip through my fingers as I’ve done a million times before. True, my hope may be as frail and brittle as one of those fallen leaves. Still, I cling to it, not letting the storms of doubt strip it from me.
My cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. A look at the number tells me it’s Grady.
“Hey,” I say, my voice raspy from sleep.
“Finally, someone answers. It’s about friggin’ time,” Grady says. The bitter note to his tone surprises me. Before I ask what’s wrong, he continues. “Since Leah is avoiding my calls and emails like the plague, I figured I’d ask you why she’s quitting school.”
I feel a slight stiffening in my throat, and I swallow, attempting to remain composed. My thoughts flit about, seeking inspiration but finding none. “Well…” I say, floundering.
“Something’s going on, dammit. Leah has wanted to be an artist since forever. I don’t believe she’d up and quit for the lame excuse she gave Mom,” he states, his words heated yet controlled. “Mom is convinced Leah’s sick, that the doctors here in England missed something.”
“I don’t know what Leah told your mum—”
“Did you knock her up?”
My mouth falls open. Striving for nonchalance, I laugh. “No, nothing of the sort.”
Crickets.
I can only imagine his expression—the cold glower of his steel-gray eyes creating a single deep crease between his thick eyebrows, his lips strained just a shade. I’ve seen that look before. He didn’t believe me then, either.
I shift on the bed, uneasy. “I respect your sister too much to put her in that kind of position. Grady, I promise you, Leah isn’t sick or pregnant. Beyond that, you’ll need to talk to her.”
“How’d I know you’d say that,” he says, his tone hitting a balance between resentment and annoyance. His voice then grows cold, free of any emotion, as he continues. “Fine. Tell my sister to call Mom. She’s upset that Leah missed Thanksgiving. I’ll be home soon enough, since I’ve changed my plans. I’ll be home for Christmas after all. She might avoid our mother, but she won’t be able to avoid me for an entire month.”
With a click, the phone goes dead.
I scrub a hand over my face. I know Grady to be an overprotective brother, a self-appointed role he assumed after their father’s death. Leah often complains about it, but this time Grady has every reason to be concerned about his sister. We must come up with a better excuse for Leah dropping out of school than whatever story she dished up. If we don’t, Grady will continue to press the matter, and we’ll have no peace. I shrug on a shirt and yank on a pair of jeans. Then, raking my fingers through my hair for good measure, I head out the door.
As expected, I find Leah in her bedchamber. I lean against the doorframe of the bath and watch as she winds her flowing locks up into a messy bun. I decide the direct route’s best and clear my throat.
Leah removes a bobby pin from between her teeth, stabbing it into the knot of hair, and smiles at me in the mirror. “Good morning.”
“Morning. Your brother called.” I sound shy, my voice low and wispy. “What excuse did you give your mum for leaving school? You never mentioned.”
Leah turns to face me, her teeth clamped on her lower lip. She leans back against the sink, her eyes lingering on her feet. “The wedding.”
I stare at her, a little confused.
With a deep breath, she looks me square in the eye. “I told her I was overwhelmed by the planning and all.”
“But we haven’t even set a date yet.”
“I know, but my mom put me on the spot. I had a whole explanation thought up. But when she started grilling me, poof, it flew out the window, and I said the first thing that popped into my head. I told her that between the wedding and all my schoolwork, something had to give. Mom said we should hold off on getting married if it interfered with school, that we were both young, that we should try living together f
irst.” Leah smiles at this. “I told her you’re old school, and we didn’t want to wait. I doubt she bought my story completely because I was lying. But she pushed.”
“No wonder Grady’s upset. In the future, it might be a good idea to keep me in the loop, especially if you need me to continue a lie. Even a bad one.” I sigh. “You’re right. Your mum didn’t buy your reason, so she made up her own. You need to call her. She believes you’re sick again.”
She flashes a quick glance toward the floor, a frown curling her mouth. “Does Grady think I’m sick too?”
“No, not exactly.” The temperature rises in my face.
“What do you mean? What did Grady say to you?”
“Your brother has a theory of his own.” I draw a deep breath through my nose. “He thinks you’re pregnant.”
“Did you give my brother a quick refresher about the birds and the bees and explain to him that we would have to have sex for that to be the case?” Her tone is sharp.
“I decided not to go into detail. I did tell him he was mistaken.”
I’m not sure Leah hears me. Red-faced, her eyes glaze over. The muscles of her slender neck constrict. “And even if it were the case, he’s one to talk! According to his last email, he’s living with Charlotte now. I know they’ve known each other a few months, and he had a huge crush on her, but they’ve been dating, what? A minute and a half? If he thinks he gets to dictate how I live my life like he thought he could when he lived here, boy, is he going to be surprised.”
“You are his little sister.”
Leah casts me a glare that suggests she doesn’t give a damn. “It’s hypocritical. Wait until I get my hands on him. I wish he were here right now so I could beat his ass!”
“Well, it seems you got your wish.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s been a change of plans,” I say. “Grady’s coming home for Christmas.”
This news deflates Leah’s anger. Her shoulders sag, and her gaze falls to the floor. “What am I going to tell him? And what am I going to tell my mom? I can’t believe I made her think I’m sick all over again.”
There’s a long silence, and when Leah looks up, tears moisten her lashes.
I hold open my arms, and Leah steps into my embrace. Fibs and half truths flow into my mind with ease. I kiss her, and then I say, “Use Grady.”
“Use him?” Her posture stiffens as she shifts in my arms.
“Yes,” I say. “Unlike your mum, he knows what I am and enough of what happened in England. So tell him the truth.”
Leah makes a face and tilts away.
“Not the whole truth,” I say. “Elaborate on the parts he already knows. It’s what I’ve done for years. Tell him my actions didn’t just heal you but had the unexpected side effect of making you immortal—he can handle that much, I think—and because it’s taking some adjustment, you’re taking a semester or two off. It will get Grady off your back at least for the time being, and then he can help you deal with your mum. And maybe by the time we need to come up with a revised story, you’ll be back in school.” I wink.
Leah rolls her eyes but relaxes, most of the tension leaving her slender shoulders. “Not bad. I forget what a good liar you are because you’re so bad at it with me.”
As childish as it is, I fight the urge to stick out my tongue.
Leah steps back to the sink. “I’ve got to finish getting ready. If I hurry, we might have enough time to have breakfast together before I go to work. At Java,” she adds, catching my wary expression.
Downstairs, I search the kitchen. I’m surprised to find the cabinets and fridge stocked with many of Leah’s favorites—Fruit Loops and Susy-Qs, even a pint of Lobster Mash in the freezer. Artagan has certainly done his homework. The thought gives me pause, forming a knot in my stomach. The words Artagan said the night Leah gathered Daniel Harris roll through my head. Many details flowed in when you received the name for the gathering. Once, Leah had been Artagan’s assignment, but he saved her, for his benefit.
And mine.
I push the thought away and move on with the construction of breakfast. Since we don’t have time for anything too elaborate—not that my cooking skills are anything to write home about beyond sausage and the occasional fried egg—I decide on Fruit Loops and then pop a couple of pieces of rye bread in the toaster. After making a pot of coffee, I set the table with fine bone china I find in the dining room cabinet and add candles for mood.
I step back, admiring my handiwork as the sound of her footsteps comes down the hall. I turn just as Leah hurries through the door.
“May I claim the pleasure of your company for breakfast, my lady?” I bow deeply at the waist, and then, like any gentleman worth his salt, I slide the chair out from the table, inviting her to sit.
“You’re a goof,” she says, stepping toward me. “But you’re my goof. You always seem to know what I need. If I ever tell you otherwise, I’m lying.” She smiles, slipping into her chair.
I pour the milk in her cereal bowl and take the seat across the table from her.
She surveys the spread. “Candles, too?”
“I thought you could use some romance.”
Leah holds my gaze. Warmth flutters in the pit of my stomach, and I reach across the table to take her hand, my thumb stroking tiny circles on her palm.
Without warning, Otmar saunters into the kitchen. I frown and release Leah’s hand as Otmar plops himself into the chair next to mine.
“Breakfast! Thanks,” he says, snatching a piece of toast from my plate. I give him a long, level stare. He bites off a substantial mouthful, chewing it loudly, and regards me. “Well, you look better. You should have seen him the other night,” he adds with a sidelong glance at Leah.
Nearly choking on my Fruit Loops, I catch his eye and shake my head a fraction of an inch. “Have you met Otmar?” I ask Leah, hoping to change the route of the conversation.
She nods, her eyes homed in on me.
“Yeah, Leah and I met. Right before I plucked your sorry ass out of the wreckage. Artagan’s still grumbling about it. Is there coffee, too?” Otmar asks as he eyes my mug.
“Yes, in the pot,” I say, cupping my hand over the rim.
“Ahhh.” His gaze darts toward the counter as he brushes the crumbs from his beard.
“Speaking of Artagan, I need to talk to him,” I say, my eyes avoiding Leah’s now-penetrating stare.
Otmar tosses the rest of his—or more accurately, my—toast in his mouth, chewing it with great satisfaction. “He’s off. Left an hour or two ago. He won’t be back until tonight.”
“Of course not,” I mutter. The man seems to sense the precise moment I need to talk to him and disappears. “You wouldn’t happen to know where?”
The corners of Otmar’s mouth turn down, sinking beneath his beard. “Don’t know. Don’t care. He said it was personal, and I left it at that.” His eyes flick to Leah. “Artagan will meet all of us at the cathedral, though. He wouldn’t miss it.”
“All? Do you mean I’m meeting the council tonight?” she asks, the color draining from her cheeks.
Nothing unexpected, I remind myself. I place my hand over Leah’s and give it a gentle squeeze.
“Sorry, left that part out, didn’t I? Yup, tonight’s the night”—Otmar’s smile broadens—“and it’s my job to get you there on time. So be here at six sharp. Wear something decent. I don’t want to miss out on any of the festivities,” he says. The level of excitement in the man’s voice is unnerving, especially taking into account what Artagan says Otmar thinks of as fun.
“Everyone will be there—Death, Thanatos, Muan, Domitilla, the protégés, the whole lot,” Otmar adds as if that fact should be reassuring.
“Domitilla will be there?” My voice is cold and stiff. A distinct hollowness settles in my stomach. Fate has taken my newfou
nd hope as a challenge and now enjoys testing its limits.
“She’ll be there. Haven’t heard otherwise.”
Something feels lodged in my throat, and I swallow hard to clear it. I glance at Leah. Her anxious gaze has settled on me. “It’s okay,” I mouth, squeezing her hand once more.
“Nervous?” Otmar pipes in.
Leah’s shoulders rise and fall.
“No need to be,” he reassures her. “You’re one of us now. And after your performance yesterday, you’re all anyone can talk about today. Both of you are.” He smirks at me.
“Great,” I say and then force a laugh.
“And there’s no reason you can’t bring Jack if that’s what’s bothering you,” Otmar goes on.
Her face lacking emotion, Leah shoves back her chair from the table, its legs grating against the tile. “I have to get to work,” she says, pushing to her feet. “But I’ll be back and ready by six.”
Distracted, she walks away toward the door.
I follow her out into the foyer. “Leah?”
She ignores me, grappling with her coat.
“Hey.” I catch her by the arm. “It will be okay.”
Leah looks away but not in time to prevent me from seeing a shadow of fear drift across her face. She studies her nails and picks at splotches of blue paint wedged along the cuticles, indicating that at least she’s still painting.
“She won’t hurt you. I won’t let her,” I say, dropping my voice an octave.
She glances at me from under her long lashes. A faint twinge of confusion flashes across her face. “Who?”
“Domitilla, of course.”
“You think that’s what I’m worried about?”
“It would be natural if you were.”
“Maybe.” An expression of steadfast determination overtakes her features—the look a soldier might wear when readying for war. “But she’s not my concern right now. You are.”