Breathe for Me

by Rhonda Helms

  I calm the fluttering of my heart. It worked. “Please, sit down.” I motion to the floor across from me, pouring all the strength and conviction I can into my voice. Respectful but firm.

  He raises an eyebrow but does as I ask.

  Resisting the urge to cling to the gris gris hidden under my shirt for strength and courage, I say, “I brought you here because I want you to release me from this—contract.” Curse. “Immediately.”

  “What?” He laughs, stands up. “This is why you called me? How disappointing. I have better things to do, Isabel.”

  I stand up too, reach over and impulsively grip Sitri’s wrist, locking the two of us into place. Yet another first for me—no déjà vu flashes upon the action. So I’ve never forcefully touched him before.

  “Let. Me. Go,” I tell him, pushing every bit of seriousness I have into my words. I dig my fingers deeper into his arm.

  Surprise blinks across his face as he studies my face. He leans back from me. I see a flash of something else in his eyes. Some kind of awareness mixed with a tinge of shock at my brashness.

  Where’s my strength coming from? Is it the gris gris? Believing in my own power, my own control? I’m not sure. But I let it bolster my confidence. “I’m serious—tell me what I have to do to break this. I’m not going with you anywhere else. You’re not wiping my mind anymore. And this curse on my skin is done.”

  A sudden blast of air swirls around us, blowing out the candles. The room falls into darkness.

  “You don’t tell me what you’re going to do!” Sitri says, his voice loud and echoing, ringing in my ears. He grips my upper arm with his free hand. “You signed away everything to me, and you’re mine.”

  “I’m not yours,” I grind out, still clinging tightly to his wrist and ignoring the pain in my arm. “I’ll never be. And release that last soul I ‘gave’ you—he’s not yours, either. His death was an accident.” Because Amos wouldn’t have chosen it, had he known. Of that, I’m certain. “I’ve more than fulfilled my duties to you, Sitri. Let me go. I don’t need or want this anymore.”

  He presses me to him, breathes frostily against my ear. “Want to see what your precious life would be like without me? Why you need me? Fine. I’m more than happy to oblige you, sweetheart.”

  After a stomach-twisting moment of dizziness, we’re outside the apartment, now standing on a corner near a dark, dingy street alley. Sitri releases me, and my body stirs back into motion, pulling away from him. I glance around and take in the cries of a police siren in the background. The Dumpsters overflowing with trash and other sticky debris. There’s a flickering street lamp ahead, blinking as the light bulb gradually dies, unattended.

  The sound of unsteady heels clacking behind us makes me spin around. I come face to face with a girl with thick, dark brown curls, a too-thin body. Her face is covered in a smattering of bruises, highlighting her sharp cheekbones. Her silky blood-red top is slipping off one bony shoulder. Her makeup is garish, bright, uncomfortable, with false eyelashes and hot-pink lips.

  But her eyes—her eyes are dead. Empty.

  She looks eerily like me. The knowledge floods me, horrifies me.

  The girl walks right by without seeing us, her target being the bustling street. She strolls the sidewalk up and down on shaky legs, casting seductive glances at every living, breathing male who comes her way.

  My stomach turns. This can’t be true—he has to be tricking me.

  Sitri moves close to me, whispers, “I give you everything you have right now. Without me, you’re homeless. Forced to find… other means to provide for yourself. No money. No school. No way to care for yourself.”

  But I have money put away. He can’t—

  “Don’t think I don’t know your ‘secrets,’” he says, brushing a curl away from my face. His words are hateful, but his tone is gentle. “You have nothing but what I’ve given you, so all of it is mine to take back with me.”

  I ignore him, try to ignore the turning in my gut. No, this can’t happen. There has to be another way. He’s wrong about this.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” the girl—she can’t be me, she can’t—calls out to a middle-aged man with a combover a few feet ahead of her, his pronounced paunch wiggling as he stomps down the sidewalk.

  He turns, blinks, makes his way over to her side. “Who, me?”

  The girl winks, slides one bare finger along his flabby jawline. “You look lonely. I’m lonely, too.”

  His eyes turn dark, hungry as he takes in her state of near undress. The short skirt and bare legs and small breasts—

  I look away. “Stop this,” I say, my voice heated. “I don’t believe it. This wouldn’t happen to me.”

  “Is this what you want? Is this the freedom you covet so desperately? No? Well, maybe you wanted this instead.” Sitri grabs my arm again, pulls me flush against his body and once more we’re swept away in a dizzying flash. When we arrive in a small, damp room, he releases me, then crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you remember this place, Isabel?”

  This time my stomach drops clear out of my body. I know exactly where—and when—we are. But how is this possible? How did he pull me back here?

  I take in the deeply pocked wooden table, the rickety chairs in the tiny house. Several small children huddle in one corner near a massive fireplace, silent. Still.

  Mr. Baker’s house.

  The stench of body odor and burning food spills into my senses, and I take shallow, panting breaths to keep from inhaling it too deeply.

  “Where is she?” I hear Mr. Baker holler, thundering through into the main room from the tiny bedroom.

  The children flinch at his angry words. Then an older girl, covered in dirt and way too thin, points out the window.

  Mr. Baker rubs his jaw as he peers outside.

  I’m too afraid to move, even though it appears he can’t see me. He flings the door open and lumbers outside, and I hear him yelling. Soft pleas meet his harsh words. Then a loud slap echoes, and the children huddle closer together, whispering. The older girl draws a little boy into her lap, stroking his hair.

  “This is what would have happened to you,” Sitri says, his voice hot, surprisingly passionate. “Abused by your husband, forced to care for his little brats who sell you out to protect their own skin. What kind of life is this for you?”

  I press a hand to my mouth, closing my eyes. I have to focus on my goal. But deep down I know he’s right. This is where I would have been, had he not come to me in my moment of need. My moment of weakness.

  This is where I left Jane, my mind whispers. To deal with Mr. Baker and his abusiveness.

  No, she never would have married him. She would have run away first. She had to. She had to.

  Guilt and fear and anxiety ricochet through me. I turn to Sitri, staring into his eyes. “Take me home,” I say in a quiet voice.

  “You are home.” His words are now cruel, meant to cut me like a razorblade.

  “It doesn’t matter what kind of tricks you play. I’m not changing my mind.” Because that’s all these are, I realize—tricks. To make me think I need him. But I don’t need him. I don’t want him in my life anymore.

  I can’t change the past. I can only control my future.

  I force myself to focus on the planes of Dominic’s face, his bold blue eyes filled with love for me. On Samantha’s infectious giggles and gentle support. On the hot breezes and spicy foods of New Orleans.

  I’m smart and resourceful. I’m a survivor. I’ll make it on my own, without becoming a junkie hooker or battered wife.

  Sitri grabs my jaw, leans in so close that I can feel the chill pouring off his skin. He stares into my eyes, his own irises flashing grey, black, red, until the colors swirl in streaks. Then he pulls me toward him, and darkness takes over once more.

  I manage to tug away. We’re back in the apartment, its dark warmth welcoming me into its embrace. My home—this city is my home.

  I fling open the curtains, the patio wind
ow, to let my city into the room. “Sitri, our time is done,” I say, pouring steel into my voice. “I won’t leave here. I want my freedom. Give me your terms or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” he says with a scoff.

  “I’ll kill myself.” There. I said it. The words that have bulleted into my brain for a number of days, since the card reading. My final hand, one I’ll play if it comes down to it.

  Because Aggie was right—I am tired. I’ve lived for too long now, hundreds of years, and if this is the last bit of control I can exert over my life, so be it. I may not remember my past since Sitri came into my life, but I feel it aching my bones.

  Plus, my death will also release Sitri’s contractual hold on all the souls he’s collected because of me, such as Amos’s. That alone would be worth it.

  Sitri stares, frozen, for a long minute. “You’d kill yourself.”

  I nod.

  “You’d do that instead of wanting to keep my gifts,” he spits out, an edge in his voice that I’ve never heard before. “You’d rather commit suicide than accept the blessings I’ve heaped upon you.”

  “These aren’t blessings,” I say quietly. “And I don’t want them anymore. I want out. Tell me your terms.”

  He moves to the couch, perches on the edge, studying my face. I feel his gaze all over me and fight the urge to cringe. “Fine. Here are my terms.”

  For a moment I can scarcely believe he’s speaking the words. My heart thuds in painful surprise, hope spilling into me like light pouring from the sun.

  “I’ll give you back your mortality. I’ll release that old man’s soul. I’ll even let you keep all your belongings and this apartment. Everything you want, free and clear. But in return…” he pauses, and his eyes grow impossibly black again, chilling me to my core. “I want Dominic’s head.”

  chapter seventeen

  I SPEND ALL NIGHT sitting on my patio, letting the warm New Orleans air caress my bare skin. With sightless eyes I stare out into the dark. What can I do? I can’t possibly give Sitri what he asks for. My freedom isn’t worth Dominic’s life—I already decided that I won’t use a sacrifice to release my curse. No way will I even entertain the idea of Dominic being the martyr, saving me.

  Sitri has forced my hand. Called my bluff. I think he believes I won’t take the final drastic step to be free of him.

  He has no idea.

  But first, maybe I can spend the next couple of days imprinting this city and its people deeply into my heart, absorbing as much as I can. Before I…

  I shake my head. If I can’t think it, how can I do it? Can’t back out now. But how do I say goodbye?

  Small slivers of pink and orange caress the horizon, fan slowly across the sky. Morning is breaking, and with the rise of the sun I shake off my morose attitude. Aggie, Dominic—they’re right about what they said. My life is my own. Sitri has no power over me anymore. There’s an odd sort of freedom that comes with accepting my fate. My destiny.

  I get out of my chair, stretching stiff limbs for a minute, then pad across the smooth wood floor of my apartment, pausing to look around the room. The white walls are bare, stark, clean; I never bothered to decorate, since I knew I wasn’t going to live here permanently, anyway. No pictures, no souvenirs, nothing around that would let anyone know I was alive. That a person lived and breathed and walked and cried and laughed and loved within the very confines of these walls.

  But there’s time. Time for me to leave an impression, a memory. When they eventually find my body—I choke back the sudden sob rising in my throat—when they find and identify me, they’ll see a life that was lived, enjoyed, valued.

  But first I need to tell my sister goodbye, shed this mantle of guilt that’s hung over my head for too long.

  I grab a piece of paper and a pen, settling onto the couch.

  Jane, I start, keeping my writing nice and even. There are so many things I want to say to you right now.

  I pause, mind whirring through more memories of her. Then I let my words spill forth in a rush. What I did was wrong, leaving you like that. I handled things so badly. But I realize that you deserved better than that. And I want need to tell you I’m sorry. I just hope you were are able to forgive me and that you found peace and happiness. On your own terms.

  I sign it with love from me, fold it in half, then in quarters. I grab my lighter and step out onto the patio, carefully placing the paper on the ground. Then I light the corner and watch my message to my sister burn and dissolve into ashes, scattering in the wind.

  “Goodbye, Jane,” I whisper; tears slick down my face. My heart feels a little lighter now, its long-held burden finally released.

  After a few more moments, I head inside to shower, change into capris and leggings with a long-sleeved shirt, then grab my phone, stuffing a big wad of cash in my pocket. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. A life free of Sitri.

  The realization gives me pause. The encumbrance of over five hundred years falls from my shoulders. I am free. And today, as a free girl, I will do whatever I want.

  I spend the first few hours of the morning just wandering up and down the streets of the French Quarter, snapping photos of old brick buildings, their façades crumbling from decade upon decade of wear and tear. Elderly men and women feeding birds, holding hands. Little kids with grimy fingers clinging to their mothers.

  For lunch, I stop in several restaurants and treat myself to whatever I want to eat. Crawfish etouffee, jambalaya, gumbo. The spices sizzle in my mouth, make me smile with the heated warmth that rolls sweat down my forehead.

  Churches, courtyards, mausoleums—I click my way through and take shots that speak to me; I watch light play across statues and windows. The sun ascends higher, cresting in the hot blue sky, and then begins its soft curve toward the west.

  A quick glance at the time shows it’s just after three. School should be out any minute now. Pangs of sorrow flood my chest as I think about Samantha, wondering what she’s doing right now. I grip the phone, my gloved hands beginning to shake, and open a new text, addressing it to her.

  I miss you, I write, then hit send before I can change my mind. Simple, but true. Hopefully she’ll see it as a gesture that we can sort things out. There’s no way I can leave things this way between us. Even if she’s angry, I need to let her know how important she is to me before I go.

  I open another new text, adding Dominic’s name, and press my back against the brick front of a used-clothing store. What can I possibly say to him to make things right? My heart is so filled with love and sorrow, beyond just simple words. I conjure an image of his face to my mind—the soft swoop of that lock of hair always in his eyes. His crooked smile. The strong line of his jaw.

  His mouth caressing mine through the soft fabric of the scarf.

  I love you. And I’m so sorry for everything, I write. I hit send and cram my phone in my pocket.

  I start the long walk home, wandering through neighborhoods. The sun is beating down now and it’s hot, but I let it fill me with its warmth. So very different from Sitri’s coldness. He’ll never have power over me again.

  As I turn the corner onto my street I notice someone sitting on the stoop of the building. It’s Samantha. She tucks a strand of newly green-streaked hair behind her ear and rubs her hands across her ripped fishnet tights.

  My heart slams in my chest, and I dig into my cell to look at my texts. Nothing new from her saying she was going to come by.

  When she sees me, she stands.

  I swallow, approach. “Hi.”

  Samantha bites her lower lip. Now that I’m closer I can see the dark circles under her eyes. My heart lurches in sympathy. “I don’t want us to fight anymore,” she whispers.

  “Me neither.”

  “I got your text.”

  “I’m glad.” I give her a shy smile, squeeze her hand. “Come inside. It’s hot out. We can talk in there.”

  We make our way through the courtyard, up the stairs to my place. The
air conditioning instantly smacks us in the face, and I shiver lightly at the sudden blast of delicious cold.

  “Wow, it’s actually frosty in here for once,” Samantha says with a sigh of pleasure. She pulls her shirt away from her chest, waving it a few times. “My clothes are sticking to me. Blech.”

  I snag a can of Coke from the fridge for me and a can of Dr. Pepper for her, tossing it to her. “Your fav.”

  “You know me so well.” She cracks it open and heads to the couch.

  I sit in the chair near her, suddenly awkward again. What do I say? Do I dare tell her? Is it crueler to remain silent and not tell her the truth, for her to hear about my plans through someone else? Or do I tell her my ridiculous story and hope she’ll understand?

  Samantha stares at me. “We need to talk,” she says, her voice quiet.

  I give a halfhearted chuckle. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”

  She puts her drink down on the coffee table, leans toward me. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but if you’re in trouble, you need to tell me. I can’t help you unless I know. And don’t tell me there’s nothing wrong because I know you better than that by now. I can read it all over your face.”

  “You won’t believe me,” I blurt out, then bite my lip.

  “Try me.” Her mouth thins into a slit, and she stares intently at me.

  I wrestle with guilt, with the burden of my deadly secret. Tell? Don’t tell? Tell? Don’t tell? What’s right? Can I trust her?

  Her hand rubs my back. “Please,” she says. Anguish pours from the word. “Please, let me in.”

  The words unknot me. I look up into her eyes and spill my truths onto her lap, barely taking a breath as I talk, talk, talk. I tell her about my pending marriage so long ago, my curse, the demon Sitri. About Dominic, our kiss, pushing him away. About Amos, his suicide. My deadline. The impossible bargain Sitri offered me.

  And when I run out of things to say, I fall silent.

  The whole time, Samantha stares at me, barely blinking.

  “Now’s the time to tell me I’m insane and run away,” I say, hating the nervous rawness in my voice, wishing I could be flippant about it. If only I didn’t care what she thought of me. But I do.