Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  His voice broke at the end and he was unable to finish.

  “Kill me,” I finished in a whisper.

  He finally looked at me again and agony filled his eyes. He seemed to be pleading for me to understand. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to have an inherent desire to kill someone—as strong and natural as the need to drink when parched or eat when starving—and then to try to overcome that force when the object of desire was right there to be easily taken. The morsel of food or jug of water . . . or innate enemy . . . right there, taunting . . . The thought of harming someone repulsed me so much I couldn’t complete the picture in my mind. I just knew it had to be nearly unbearable to fight that impulse . . . and the feeling of not conquering it could only be worse. Especially when the person you wanted to hurt—to kill—was the person you also loved.

  I tempted this urge in him and didn’t even know what he went through. My heart ached for Tristan and the struggle for control he had to fight every time he was with me. I squeezed his hand once to communicate I understood and then tried to pull my hand from his, thinking that just holding his hand made it even worse for him. He held tighter to mine, though, and shook his head.

  “It’s way too late for you to worry now,” he whispered.

  “Done with this arm,” Mom said, standing up. “Trade places with me, Tristan.”

  Tristan took my hand as soon as he was seated again, now on my right.

  “This is why I was so concerned when I first saw you with Tristan,” Mom said as she rearranged everything in front of her. “I hadn’t seen him in twenty years and I didn’t know how he was. The Amadis told me over the years he was still with us, but he stayed away most of the time, so I didn’t know for sure.”

  She filled the syringe again and I looked back at Tristan as she stuck the needle into my arm.

  “I was too ashamed,” Tristan muttered, dropping his eyes from mine, staring at his lap again. “I am supposed to be this strong, invincible, nearly perfect being, but it took immense effort to control my own nature. I didn’t want the Amadis to see and know that about me. I would check in to let them know I hadn’t gone back to the Daemoni and to absorb Amadis power when I needed it.”

  “Amadis power?” I asked. “What is that?”

  “Sorry, hon,” Mom said. “I can’t give details. Just remember you and I—and Tristan—have unusual . . . abilities. Our powers must come from somewhere, right?”

  Abilities? Powers? I’d never thought of them that way. They’d always been annoying quirks that made me weird. But after everything that happened tonight . . . and thinking about everything Mom and Tristan could do that just wasn’t normal . . . I realized that’s exactly what they were. I looked at Mom and opened my mouth to ask a question, but she shook her head.

  “This is about Tristan, Alexis,” she reminded me, seeing my frustration.

  She pressed along my left arm and, not able to feel it, I shook my head. She picked up the scalpel and I immediately turned toward Tristan.

  “Can I tell her what the Amadis power does for me?” he asked Mom. “So at least she can understand some of it and its importance to me?”

  When Mom didn’t answer—and I didn’t feel any pressure on my arm yet—I looked at her. She seemed to be considering it, then finally nodded.

  I lay my head against the table again and watched Tristan as he stared at the table and explained. “Amadis power allows me to conquer the . . . monster . . . within me. It strengthens the goodness, so it can overcome everything else bred into me.”

  “So it’s good for you,” I said.

  “Yes,” he answered quietly. “I need it.”

  “You would’ve been better off staying with them,” Mom admonished. Tristan didn’t answer. He looked at me again and returned to what he’d been saying.

  “Once I realized that, with great effort, I could control myself with you, I wanted to learn more about you. You intrigued me . . . and you made me happy. In all my years, I had never experienced that emotion—happiness—and you gave it to me in a day.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  I hurt to hear he’d never once felt happiness in his two-hundred-odd years. That’s such a long time to live. And to be miserable the whole time? But I never had either. In my very short life, I could not remember ever feeling real joy. Mom and I had some good memories, but not true happiness. Not like what I felt when I was with Tristan. He brought the best out of me. And now I couldn’t imagine not being with him—going back to my old, dark, lonely life . . . I knew I just couldn’t do it. Even knowing what I did now.

  “So,” he continued, “I started looking for more ways to spend time with you without scaring you off. I realized immediately when I’m with you, that monster inside . . . well, it doesn’t exactly go away, but it’s . . . quiet, repressed. You bring out the good in me.”

  “Like the Amadis power?” I asked, surprised.

  He smiled again, less sorrow in it this time. “That’s what I thought at first.”

  “It couldn’t be,” Mom said. “Until the Ang’dora, Alexis, your power is extremely weak. Not strong enough to do what you have for Tristan.”

  “And it’s different,” Tristan added. “It’s just who you are naturally, what you do to me. Nothing special or extraordinary. Just you being you. You bring out the best in me.”

  Funny. I’d just been thinking the same about him. It dawned on me the connection we had—we each needed the other to truly thrive, to be the best we could be.

  “So you don’t want to kill me, right?” I asked.

  Tristan grimaced. He stared at the table for a moment and then looked me directly in the eye. “I could not consciously harm a single hair on your head. I knew when I met you I had to maintain control—I could never hurt you—and it has become easier every day since. Even all that blood tonight . . . at one time that would have caused all hell to break loose. Literally. But not anymore.”

  “Why?” I asked. “I mean, why do you think it’s easier to control now?”

  “Because I love you,” he said matter-of-factly, still holding my eyes. “The pain I would feel if I ever did anything to you far outweighs any desire or force within me. Sometimes that other force tries to fight it, but my love for you is overpowering every other urge.”

  “Love tends to do that,” Mom said quietly. “What you need to understand, Alexis, is how amazing it is for Tristan to feel that . . . to know love. He was created for the exact opposite . . . hatred and evil—”

  Tristan cringed.

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “But, unfortunately, it’s true. I personally thought it was impossible for Tristan to love anyone. He’s surprised us all, though me more than others. Many of the Amadis believed it could happen, that he could love. I didn’t think he would go back to his old life—I wasn’t positive, but I didn’t think he would—but I never thought he could come so far as to love. And I have to admit it bothered me at first, that the person he loves is you, my own daughter. But I see you two together every day. I can’t deny the truth . . . .”

  We sat there quietly for a while, Mom continuing her mini-surgery on my arm. I closed my eyes and my mind whirled. A ticker tape of questions ran through my head. I hit information overload, unable to process it all.

  “But now that you know the truth, Alexis, I’ll understand if you can’t love me,” Tristan said quietly. “It’s a lot to accept.”

  I chuckled. All this time I’d been worried about him not accepting me. He watched me as he waited for my answer, his eyes noticeably darkening with each beat of my heart. I knew he expected the worst. But all I could think about was what he overcame—his own natural desires, what he was made for—so he could be good. And I knew to my very core he was good. And he loved me. I squeezed his hand.

  “I told you I wouldn’t change my mind,” I said.

  He gazed into my eyes and he must have seen the truth because immediate relief washed over his face. He lifted my hand to his mouth and pressed
his lips against the back of it.

  “Okay, you’re glass-free,” Mom said, sitting back in her chair with a heavy sigh. “What a night.”

  “Oh, yeah, what happened at the store?” I asked. With such a surreal discussion, the accident now seemed like a different lifetime or dimension. “I mean, with the driver?”

  “The police think he was drunk and tried to escape the car before it hit the store,” Mom said. “The door was open as if he planned to jump, but apparently, he must have just fallen out and under the car, because it rolled over him, crushing his chest.”

  “Ugh.” My own injuries from the night now felt miniscule. I could only hope it was quick for him. “Do they know who he was?”

  “His name was Phillip Jones. He lived here in the Cape. Some people from the bar came down to the scene, said he’d been drinking since this morning because his wife left him.”

  Phillip . . . Phil . . . My mind flashed on the orange car sitting partially in the store . . . and then the orange Camaro the wife-beater at the park had jumped into when Tristan scared him off. Oh! I looked at Tristan, my eyes huge. He nodded with immediate understanding.

  “Owen told me what happened at the park and this was the same guy,” Mom said.

  I bit my lip. “What did he tell you?”

  “That you interrupted a domestic situation.” Her voice trailed off and her eyes narrowed as the truth came to her. “Alexis! You hit him?”

  Tristan spewed coffee out of his mouth. “I knew it!”

  I jumped up for a paper towel, needing to escape their stares.

  “He pissed me off,” I mumbled, handing the towel to Tristan.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Mom asked.

  “It wasn’t like James, but—” I tugged at my hair and glanced at Tristan. “But I was afraid you’d make us move anyway.”

  Mom shook her head. “You and your temper. What am I going to do with you?”

  I ignored the rhetorical question.

  “Did Owen tell the police?” I asked. “They need to know, don’t they? Tristan and I should probably give a report, too, right? Probably tell them everything.”

  “No,” Mom said, to my surprise. “Right now the police think it was a drunk driver who lost control. Just an accident.”

  “But, Mom . . . that’s obstruction of justice! He was purposely aiming for us!”

  “Alexis, we don’t know that for sure and we never will. What more justice can there be, anyway? He’s dead. What good can come of making it more than it seems?”

  “Do you want that little girl to grow up thinking her dad attempted murder?” Tristan asked quietly.

  I sighed heavily as I slumped back in my chair, thinking of that poor little girl. I didn’t know whether to be relieved to know her dad would never hurt her or her mom again . . . or sad she would have to grow up without a dad at all. I decided to be relieved. From what I’d seen, he wasn’t much more of a father to her than my sperm donor was to me.

  “I’m exhausted and I think we better go to bed before this night gets any worse,” Mom said, standing up and stretching. “It’s late, Tristan. You’re welcome to stay. Just remember . . . I’m right in the next room.”

  He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fought a smile at her comment, and then he turned to me. “Is that what you want?”

  I thought about whether I wanted him nearby or if I needed time to think by myself. There was still so much I didn’t know about him. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep and if I needed to talk about anything, I would want him there. And I still wanted to be with him. I still loved him. Perhaps even more than I did just a few hours ago.

  I placed my hand over his. “Yes, I want you to stay with me.”

  Chapter 13

  I brushed my teeth and changed into a tank top and pajama shorts before Tristan joined me in my room. I sat on the bed nervously while he stood just inside the door.

  “Are you okay with this?” he asked, hesitantly. “I mean, with me in general, first of all?”

  I considered what he meant. My heart said I was okay with him, but my mind played devil’s advocate. He’s killed people. True, that was something I had to accept about him, but that was his past life. Not who he was now. Not my Tristan. He wants to kill me. No, he said he can’t, I reminded myself. He said his love was stronger.

  “Yes, I am more than okay with you.”

  “You’re not scared of me now?”

  “Should I be?”

  He walked over to me and knelt on his knees so we were eye-to-eye, placing his hands on my thighs. “Do you still love me?”

  “Definitely.”

  “As clichÉ as it sounds, I strongly believe our love will conquer anything else . . . at least, anything inside of me.”

  “I believe that, too. Besides, if you’d wanted to kill me, you’ve had plenty of opportunity.”

  He grimaced. “Let’s not make light of it, okay?”

  “Sorry. It’s just that I . . . trust you.”

  He chuckled but there was no humor in it. “I tell you all this terrible stuff about me and now you trust me?”

  “Yeah, ironic, huh?” I thought about that for a moment. “I guess it goes to show how powerful the truth is. Whatever you did in the past doesn’t matter now. You’ve been forgiven. I love who you are now.” I held my hands to his face, stroking his cheeks with my thumbs. “You are now more a part of me than ever.”

  “Yes, I have given you everything,” he murmured. “Before I met you, I didn’t even know I really had a heart. And now it is yours—all yours.”

  I pulled his face to mine and kissed him gently on his satiny lips. Then I kissed his forehead . . . and his eyelids . . . and his cheeks . . . and his chin . . . and the corners of his mouth. The built-up emotions of the night—fear, anxiety, shame, pain, sadness—crashed down on us and then were pushed away by the strongest of them all: love. Our lips moved together hungrily. I tasted the tangy-sweetness on his lips . . . his breath . . . his tongue.

  Our kisses became more passionate as he leaned into me. My heart raced with excitement, my body pulsing with electrical charges he sent through it with every touch. I wrapped my legs around his waist and pressed my body into his while pulling him closer still with my arms. I wanted to just melt into him and let him feel that I did really love him.

  He laced his fingers into my hair and pulled gently back, exposing my neck. He moved his lips along my jaw, down my throat. I let out a sigh as he kissed my collar bone and then pulled my head back further, lifting my chest. He nestled his face between my breasts. His rigid body trembled against mine. I squeezed him with my arms and legs.

  And then he let go of my hair and his body slackened as he breathed heavily against my chest. My own breathing was ragged as I struggled to use my brain, to figure out why he’d stopped.

  We both sat there for a minute, him on his knees, his head against my chest, me holding him tight, but starting to relax. When the fog cleared from my mind, I knew it was good he’d stopped. I wasn’t ready for anything more.

  “I don’t think we should push it any further,” he finally said.

  “Right,” I agreed, reluctantly letting him go.

  “I should probably go home.”

  “Please don’t,” I reacted. Then I remembered what I did to him—his internal struggle between wanting to love me and wanting to kill me—and my heart hurt for him again. “I mean, I wish you would stay, but if you think you need to . . .”

  He rocked back on his heels and his face was tight, as if concentrating hard on something. His eyes were closed and he took careful, controlled breaths. When he opened his eyes, the gold looked more like fire than sparkles, but not bright flames like I’d seen before. That’s when I realized what the flames meant . . . he was about to lose control. Each time I’d seen them, we’d been in a moment of passion and passion led to loss of control, regardless of who—or what—you were. I knew that already just from the little bit I’d experienced.
He stopped us not just because he was a gentleman, but also to protect me. I shuddered.

  “I do scare you,” he said quietly.

  I shook my head.

  “I trust you, Tristan,” I whispered, my throat hot and dry. A cold glass of ice water suddenly seemed absolutely necessary. “You want a glass of water?”

  He smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

  I stood up and found my legs to be slightly weak and wobbly. By the time I returned and we both drained our glasses, we felt cooled down enough to lie safely together. We lay on our sides in my small bed, my back against his chest, his arms around me, holding me close. But my mind continued to spin, not ready to shut down, questions still flying through it. I started with an easy one.

  “So, when’s your birthday?” I asked.

  “Ah. Now the questions.” He chuckled in my hair. “October 31.”

  “Halloween? Oh . . . I guess that shouldn’t be surprising.”

  “It was just a coincidence, though, especially since I was premature,” he said. “I was born. They didn’t hook me up to a machine and turn a switch on.”

  “So you’re not like Frankenstein?” I asked with a giggle.

  “Definitely not. They just made sure the right genes . . . and other things . . . were a part of my creation. But I’m more like you than you realize.”

  “You keep saying that and I believe it . . . although I still really don’t know who I am.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t tell you, but it’s not my place.” He kissed the back of my head. “If you pay attention to your mom and to me—and really believe we’re very much alike—you’ll get an idea of who you’ll become.”

  “Hmm . . . good idea. So, we missed your birthday. I’ll have to make that up to you.”

  “No need. I prefer not to acknowledge it,” he said sadly. I realized the real meaning of his dislike for Halloween.