by Lucy Auburn
He puts his hand out, fingers trembling just slightly.
And places his hand in mine.
Chapter 15
The expression on Grayson's face changes all at once, so completely that I feel like I'm looking at a different person.
It's crazy how much pain can change a person's every facial features.
His hand is warm and trembling slightly in mine, but as our skin touches, he folds his fingers into mine firmly, grabbing on tight like he's afraid I might let go. The lines on his face melt away; a tense furrow in his brow I didn't even know was there disappears. Those ice blue eyes of his flutter closed, tension pooling away and dissolving by the millisecond. Years seem to melt away from him as the pain vanishes all at once, for the first time ever.
And his mouth, always smirking or frowning or grimacing, softens. His lips part just slightly. That unfairly perfect jawline of his shifts as his mouth relaxes, years worth of enduring pain draining away.
Grayson cups my hand with both of his, the cane he takes with him everywhere clattering to the ground, folding our hands together like a man in desperate need of support.
I just stand there, feeling awkward, like I'm watching an intimate moment I shouldn't be privy to. Something about this feels more private and raw than it would be if he were naked and swinging his dick around helicopter-style. The urge to look away, to pull my hand from his, is overwhelming. Licking my lips, I open my mouth and frantically try to think of a quip, wishing there were some way to break the tension. What I wouldn't do for Levi right now.
"My god." Grayson's voice is raw, trembling. His eyes flutter open, soft and wet at the edges, their blue like mirrored pounds. "I'd forgotten..."
He takes a tiny step forward, towards me, and falls to his knees all at once. His legs are trembling like a newborn foal taking its first steps. Pulling our hands towards him, he presses his forehead against the back of my knuckles and lets out a tiny sob.
Tears are streaming down his face, silently falling to his collar, the Adam's apple of his throat bobbing as he swallows heavily.
I want to be anywhere but here, in this place, watching the vulnerable emotions of a man I hate—no, I no longer know how I feel, and that's the part that frightens me. It's would be so easy to still loathe Grayson. I wish I could snatch my hand away and watch the pain wreck him without feeling guilt, but I can't, so instead I'm stuck here, witnessing a moment of vulnerability neither of us want me to be here to see.
His hair is soft against the back of my hand. Biting my lip, I reach out and stroke it back from his forehead, and he makes a sound like a drowning man. Shuddering, his shoulders briefly lifting as he breathes deep, he keeps his head bowed as he tries to draw himself back together again. It occurs to me that his pain was as much an a barrier around him as anything, unwanted armor coming between him and the world around him.
Everywhere my fingers skim against his scalp, tension melts away, until I almost wonder if he's going to fall asleep. That would be awkward. Eventually I'll need my hand.
But after several long moments, and deep breaths, he pulls back. Swallows a few more times. Draws his second hand away from mine, so we're just grasping fingers like before. Feeling awkward, I pull my other hand away from his scalp, wondering what possessed me to touch him.
When he leans back and slowly gets to his feet, an expression like joy briefly crosses his face, and I realize he's putting weight on his leg without any pain. Standing in front of me, he calmly wipes his expression, letting his tears air dry without any shame. The grimacing, snapping, frowning, and surly Grayson seems to be almost completely gone. His brows are relaxed, his eyelids soft, the lines always drawing his mouth down vanished completely.
In a wry voice, he says, "Let's do this thing already, before I embarrass myself further."
"Yes. Right."
I inhale sharply, forcing myself to drag my eyes away from his face. It's a wonder how much younger and kinder he looks without pain settled into every taut muscle of his expression. I feel almost cruel for insisting that he take this unwanted gift from me, us both knowing I'll yank it away once I've gotten what I want. Grayson has lived with the pain for so long that he'd forgotten what his life was like without it, and now here I am to remind him of something that will never permanently be his again.
It's impossible to decide what would be worse: to get this over with quickly and end our hand-holding like ripping a bandaid off, denying him more time without the pain, or to stretch it out as long as possible, giving him as much painless time as I dare, only to dunk him back into a world of limping and wincing, risking that he'll get too used to it.
Since I can't decide, I distract myself by thinking about ghosts. "So..." I stare up at him, licking my lips, his soft blue eyes following the motion. "When it happened in the arena, I wasn't really thinking about anything at all. Which means I'm not sure what to do here."
Grayson tilts his head slightly, as if thinking. "When it happened, I was thinking about how much I wanted to see what you'd really done to your family—I was convinced that you'd killed them still—and I couldn't stop thinking about my brother."
I raise my eyebrows at him. "So you're not still convinced I killed them? Not even a little tiny doubting bit?"
"Well..." He sighs. "It wounds my ego to admit that I was wrong, or that my powers could be fooled, but clearly you didn't kill Bernard. I just don't know who did it. I saw a fog out the window when I got to the top of the stairs—"
"You never told me that."
"I wasn't sure I could trust what I'd seen." He shrugs one shoulder. "And I knew that you'd latch onto it as proof that the same man who killed your parents killed Bernard, to cover up evidence he'd ever been inside his head."
"I'm glad you can finally admit the obvious truth," I tell him dryly. "Wish you'd figured it out sooner."
"Me too. Maybe then there wouldn't be so much animosity between us," he confesses, which throws me for a loop. Then he adds, "It just doesn't make sense. Why kill two normal, average people without a criminal background or any flags? Your Mom and Stepdad had no enemies, no reason to be brutally murdered. You were the primary suspect for a reason. I know now it wasn't you, I just don't know why someone else did it."
"We're about to find out why," I tell him. "My mom knew more about my father than she let on my whole life. I think she knew about this place, too. And apparently my dad had secrets—or at least, that's what the crazy Black Serpent said, and yes I know he was probably lying about some stuff, keep your comments to yourself."
Grayson grins, a true smile that lights up his eyes with amusement, and the sight of it nearly steals the breath from my chest. "I wasn't going to say anything," he claims playfully, "but yes, it's better not to trust the madman who kidnapped you for his own fairy tale three act play."
"So they tell me. But I'm betting the psycho was right about one thing: there's something fishy about the fact that the Black Serpent and my dad went here at the same time. Their photos are up on the wall and they graduated the same year. I think he did know him, and I think my mom knew some things too, so I want to ask her. With your help. I just don't know how to get her here."
"Levi always said his powers were more about the ritual than anything." Grayson considers me for a moment. "What's happened every time you summoned a ghost? What were you doing or feeling?"
Remembering the time I fled from the Fuckfaces through the Arizona Manor and wound up summoning ghosts from the graveyard, I tell him, "I was fighting both times." The time my father showed up when I was trying to summon the door occurs to me too. "Actually, I was sort of facing off against an adversary the other time it happened, too. And I was angry. Frustrated. I think I threw my hands up right beforehand."
"Levi throws his hands up to use his powers. His says something about it forges a link across the space between his spirit and another's. Maybe try that."
This new, helpful Grayson is so unfamiliar to me that I find myself looking for any trick
s or hidden agenda. But no, he's actually giving me advice on using my powers. And as he stands just a foot and a half away from me, his fingers entwined with mine loosely, he looks almost... relaxed. At peace. Less like a stuck-up asshole and more like a troubled young man.
I can't get used to this version of him. It's too dangerous—for both of us. It won't last, I'm sure of that.
Turning to face the closed door of the room he shares with Wyatt, I lick my lips nervously, and put my hand out in front of me, palm facing towards the door. It feels a little silly doing this, like I'm some kind of superhero in the movies, a cape blowing behind me.
I think about ghosts.
A moment later, a woman appears steps in front of the door, her form ghostly. She has a kind face, and blood crusting her neck and head, her eyes staring at us forlornly.
"Mom." Grayson's voice is choked with grief. "I... Ellen, I thought you were going to try to summon your mom."
"I guess my powers are stuck on the, uh, last ghost summoned." I'm not sure if I sound convincing. "But while she's here, we should practice further. Maybe see if you can get her to talk to you. Surely there's something you want to say to her."
He narrows his eyes at me, a bit of paranoia breaking through his more relaxed, pain-free demeanor. Clearly he doesn't completely buy my bullshit, which is no surprise, given that I was lazy about selling it. But, not one to look a gift dead mom in the mouth, he turns towards the ghost and takes a small step forward.
"Can you... speak?" His eyes search the air around her. "I don't see the others. Leah and Dad, are they around?"
She shakes her head, looking at me nervously. I coax her forward, and she takes a few steps towards him, grief in her eyes.
They stare at each other.
I wonder if it's been so long since they've spoken that they don't know what to say.
Or maybe the ghost can't speak. It's entirely possible that this ability of mine is useless. Professor Killington seemed to think that my ghost-summoning abilities would come in handy during missions, but if the ghosts I summon can't communicate, then there's basically no point.
"Can you say anything?" I ask her. "Are you able to speak to him?"
Grayson hastily adds, "You don't have to. If you don't... want to. If it hurts."
She was slashed across the throat, I realize, just like my mom before she died. My heart does a painful twisting thump in my chest, and I wonder if I'm ready to actually see her again. I want to ask her questions, but if she's going to just stand there mute like Grayson's mom is now, maybe it would just be reopening a recent wound for no reason.
Just when I'm about to throw in the towel, her mouth opens, and Grayson's mom speaks. "You've gotten so big." She approaches him, reaches out, and puts the silvery edge of her hand against his cheek, briefly stroking it. "Now you're as tall as your father. Taller, even."
He makes a strangled sound of grief, his hand tightening in mine. "I'm sorry," he says, voice low and pained. "You didn't get to see me grow up."
"Why would that be your fault?"
Grayson swallows, looks away, and I wonder how much it pains him to reveal so much of his inner wounds in front of me. Like a feral animal, he wants to hide his hurt away—but he can't as long as our physical connection is the only thing making this possible.
Slowly, he tells his mother, "Because I egged him on. We fought so much. He got that knife to threaten me, and I—I just ran away. So he stabbed you and Dad to death, and Leah..." His eyes flutter closed, before he drags his anguished gaze to his mother. "Tobey wouldn't have killed anyone if I hadn't incited him to violence. And maybe if I had faced him sooner, hadn't hid like a coward while he killed all of you, you'd still be alive today."
"Oh, my sweet baby boy." She sighs, the sound full of grief, ragged in her chest. "There's nothing you could've done to stop your brother. He was born wrong, and your father and I knew it, but we tried to raise him right anyway. In the end, some things can't be fixed. I just wish we'd figured that out before you had to pay the ultimate price."
"But you're the one who paid the price." He sounds bewildered. "You, Dad, and Leah. He killed you."
"There are things worse than death," she says, looking for all the world like she wants nothing more than to hug her son, but can't. "Whatever guilt you're carrying for what happened that day, let it go, Grayson. It wasn't your fault. I don't want you to live with that."
There's a long moment of agonized silence. Then Grayson says, in a voice as small as a little boy's, "But if I let go of that, I'll be letting go of you, too."
"No, my darling. Love isn't just guilt and grief. Remember me in the good times, and remember all the moments we had where all was well. Let the love in." She places her hands over her chest, eyes shining, and for a moment she looks vibrant and alive. "Don't put your life on hold because of what happened to us. It's time you forgive yourself and move on."
Her eyes go to me, and I feel distinctly like I'm peering into someone else's private moment, watching something I was never meant to be witness to. "Thank you for giving me this moment with my boy."
"You're welcome." My mouth feels dry. "I can always summon you again to talk to him."
"No." She shakes her head, a sad smile on her face. "It's time for me to move on. For all of us to move on."
Then two other figures fade into view beside her: the little girl from before, and the man. Grayson's sister and father. A hollow, sinking feeling enters my chest, as I start to understand what she wants to happen next.
His father tells Grayson, "I love you, my boy. I'm sorry I wasn't able to protect you."
"You were asleep," Grayson says, sounding bewildered. "You couldn't have—we didn't see it coming."
"Your mother and I did, and we didn't do enough to protect you from the danger in your own home." Squeezing the little girl's shoulders, he adds, "I've carried that guilt for a long time. But it's time to let it go and move on. We can't stay here anymore."
His mother adds, "We love you so much, baby boy."
"No." Grayson shakes his head, his hand tight in mine, like he's afraid if he loosens our grip they'll disappear immediately. "You can't go, not yet. I..."
The little girl, Leah, breaks out of her father's hands and goes to him. Staring up into his face, she tells him with the wisdom of the dead, "Life is for the living. We need to move on, Gray. This world isn't ours anymore. Don't hold us back."
He stares down at her for a long, heavy moment, face stricken. Then he swallows, composes himself, and nods sharply. "Right. Whatever is out there... well, wherever you're going, it's probably nice. And I don't think I'll be able to follow. But you deserve it. You deserve peace."
"We love you, Grayson."
"I love you too," he whispers, his eyes landing on each one of them, frantically staring as if trying to hold on to every whisper of a second. "I love you all so much. The only time I feel whole is when I remember you."
"We'll always remember you, baby boy."
His father tells him, "Stay strong for us."
"And don't forget to have fun," his little sister reminds him with an impish smile. "Life isn't worth living without the fun shit."
A strangled laugh leaves his mouth. Turning away, the three family members take each other's hands, exchange one last look at him over their shoulders, and step forward.
They start to glow.
The magic of it reminds me of the warm glow of Cain University's doors. There's a promise there of another place, a great beyond where, maybe, things are better. Peaceful. At rest.
Bit by bit, the glow consumes them, until they've faded away completely. Just like that, they're gone.
For a moment I stand stock still, wondering what I'm supposed to say. There was no handbook for this, no greeting cards that read, "For a Man Whose Dead Family Has Moved on Without Him." There isn't even a "Sorry Your Brother Murdered Your Whole Family, RIP" greeting card. Hell if I know how to write the poetry to cover it.
Grayson turns t
owards me, and his eyes are lost, his expression like nothing I've ever seen before. "They're gone, Ellen. Just like that."
"I know." I lick my lips awkwardly, and he watches the movement like a hawk. "At least they're somewhere better, probably, right? I mean, that has to be a comfort. And you got to see them before—"
Suddenly he's stepping so close I can feel the warmth of his body.
His eyes roam my face, lost and confused, full of grief and a new kind of pain, one different from the twisting physical pain of before.
Tugging on my hand, he brings me so close to him that I gasp a little in shock, feeling dazed.
"What are you doing?"
Grayson doesn't seem to know the answer. So he answers with, "This."
And kisses me on the mouth like a drowning man.
His lips are warm and firm, his kiss a little unsteady. He leans on me and tilts his mouth, coaxing my lips apart, melting into me. The way he holds his hand between us, I feel more like a life raft than a woman.
I try to say against his lips, "We shouldn't do this."
He silences me with a kind of desperate passion. I don't fool myself that the kiss is about how hot he is for my B cups and sizzling comebacks. He's drowning in grief, and pressing his mouth against mine, pulling my body towards his, is his way of gasping for air.
A gasp for air that makes my legs unsteady. His tongue is as wicked as his mouth is smart. He tilts his head and gently works my bottom lip, then my top, then my tongue again. Every moment of deep, tangled, bitter passion draws lust up from inside me, pricks my thighs and makes heat gather at my apex.
Based on the stirring arousal he presses against my thighs, Grayson is right there too. He moans low into my mouth, breaks away long enough to murmur, "You know, I haven't been on top since my leg," then kisses me again, his mind clearly on one track.
I don't know how to stop where this is going. I don't even know if I want to. As certain as I am that I'll regret it, it's hard to step away when my heart is doing leaps in my chest and his tongue is coaxing a warmth out of me that I thought I'd never feel. I could drown in his cold eyes, melt against his hard body, the raw desperation in him feeling uncomfortably close to worship.