“No,” Joan repeated. “The two of us will be just fine. I’ll take some time off work and—”
“Dylan’s recovery is going to take weeks, Mrs McKenzie,” Tristan interjected quietly. “Likely months.”
A tense moment passed as Joan clenched her teeth and Dylan fought to keep the victorious expression from her face. There was no way Joan would be able to take that much time off. Even if the hospital allowed the absence, she knew they couldn’t afford to lose Joan’s wages.
“Plus, Mum, we live on the second floor of a tenement flat. You’re not exactly strong enough to carry me up and down two flights of stairs!” Dylan squeezed Tristan’s hand, sensing the inevitable.
After several long, angry seconds of silence, Joan turned to Tristan and spat her words out: “You sleep on the couch. Understand?”
TWO
The man was crying. Susanna watched his face contort and crumple, his hands clenching and unclenching on the handkerchief he carried with him like a security blanket. What was his name again? Michael. His name was Michael.
Michael was crying.
Susanna stared at him and hoped her expression concealed the complete indifference she felt. Michael could continue to cry and plead. He could wail and sob. He could fling himself to the floor and beat on the thin, ugly carpet with his hands and feet – it wouldn’t change a thing. He was dead, and that’s all there was to it.
She couldn’t understand why he was so surprised. He’d been sick a long time and when she came to him at the hospital, he knew. There’d been no need for trickery, no story to spin. She hadn’t felt the need to change her appearance to sway him, and continued to look ‘herself’. That is, she used the first face she was given when her existence as a ferryman began, when she first saw, thought, felt. The face of the young woman she’d like to be if she could ever really be a young woman. Tall, graceful, dark-haired, dark-eyed. It put her a good decade or so younger than Michael, but he’d made no comment.
He was saving his talk for when they’d started walking. Then it was all: he wasn’t ready. He needed more time. He hadn’t done all the things he wanted to do yet.
Well, tough. He’d had more warning than most people. Susanna knew enough about his life to understand that he hadn’t cherished it prior to his illness. If he hadn’t put his time to good use, that was his problem.
Still, it had made the first day beyond tedious. Michael had lived in a small community up in the wilds of Canada and he’d succumbed to his disease in the middle of winter. When they took those first few steps outside, the wind howled and snow lay thick and fast on the ground. It hadn’t taken long to leave the last echoes of the real world behind and start the trek across gentle hills made mountainous by the heavy drifts that hid the land. Though there wasn’t far to travel to the first safe house, they’d barely made it there before dark. Plod, plod, plod. Each step a fight against the elements the wasteland had recreated to ease Michael into death.
Susanna didn’t really feel the cold, but Michael’s constant whining had been a beetle under her skin. Had distracted her from what she really wanted to think about: Tristan.
She’d recognised him as soon as she noticed the ferryman and soul walking determinedly in the wrong direction. She’d have known him anyway – felt the pulse of his energy, the signature that was uniquely Tristan – but he’d been wearing a face she’d seen before. Often. Vivid blue eyes, sharp cheekbones. A slightly stubborn jaw. It was a strong face. Resolute.
He’d gone into the tunnel, right at the fringes of his soul’s wasteland, and she hadn’t seen him since.
He’d really gone. To the world of the living.
All day Susanna had struggled with that truth. And it was the truth, she knew it down to her very bones, but how? It should have been impossible for a ferryman. It was, it absolutely was impossible. Even when ferrymen picked up their souls from where they had died, they never went right into the land of the living. They were never able to touch anything or be seen by others who were still alive. The souls had already crossed over at the moment of their death. It was imperceptible, instantaneous. Taking less than the time for a heartbeat – had their hearts still been beating.
So how had he done it? Susanna asked herself that question again and again as she lit the meagre fire in the log cabin that was their first safe house.
Of course, of all the ferrymen it had to be Tristan to do it, to work it out. That didn’t surprise her. There was something different about him, something special. He was meant for more than this – this half existence.
Now that he was gone, she felt it. Felt the lack of him. Noticed it all the time. Like a tiny piece of her soul was missing. Which was stupid, because she didn’t have a soul. She missed him, though. Missed his presence nearby – he had always been there alongside her as they made their routes through the wasteland: comforting, strong.
So how did he do it?
And… could she follow?
“Tomorrow we have to go faster,” she told Michael, cutting over his continuous low-level mumbling and whining. “There are things that lurk out there in the dark, and you don’t want them to get you. Trust me.”
Beyond the walls of the little log cabin where they would shelter overnight, low moans and wails rose above the constantly blowing wind. Wraiths. They sensed the vulnerable, sensed Michael’s weakness, his cowardice, and they were gathering.
THREE
Tristan gripped the handles of Dylan’s wheelchair outside their building, as Joan fumbled with the lock, her jangling keys loud in the silence. She was still very angry, Tristan could see, her back ramrod straight. He’d have to be careful.
Joan needed him – for now.
But she wanted him gone.
The hospital waiting room hadn’t been the ideal place to make a good first impression. Or the ideal time. He hadn’t prepared an explanation for his sudden appearance and, put on the spot, he knew he’d fumbled. There’d be some hard questions later.
Now…
Joan opened the door and he pushed Dylan’s wheelchair into the dark tenement hallway. The stairwell loomed above them – they would have to get Dylan up two flights.
“You pick her up – carefully – and I’ll take the chair.”
Feeling Joan’s eyes on his every move, Tristan bent down to help Dylan out of her chair.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he said quietly. Slipping one hand around her shoulders and the other, very carefully, beneath her legs, he lifted her, and felt the weight pull at his shoulders, his back, as he straightened up.
“Don’t drop me!” Dylan squeaked.
“I won’t,” he promised. And he wouldn’t – but either gravity was different in the real world or he’d changed. He’d been strong in the wasteland. Strong enough to fight wraiths, and haul souls of all shapes and sizes across the unforgiving terrain.
Now… he felt like a sixteen-year-old boy with a sixteen-year-old boy’s strength. Only pride and the fear of hurting Dylan stopped him from pausing as he took the steps up to the second floor.
Joan followed closely behind with the cumbersome chair, and helped Tristan place Dylan back down before unlocking their flat door.
Tristan had seen Dylan’s place, of course, in her memories. But it still felt unexpected: breathing in the faint trace of Dylan and the heavier smell of the damp creeping into the living room. He reached out with one hand and briefly brushed the raised pattern of the woodchip wallpaper lining the hallway. The tips of his fingers tingled. It wasn’t any different to any other wall he’d ever touched, and yet it was. It was real. Someone – quite a long time ago, he thought – had once lovingly pasted this onto their wall. Had chosen it from all the other options, to make their home.
He snatched his hand back and coughed as a swell of emotion tightened in his chest.
“Are you all right?” Dylan murmured, when Joan disappeared into the living room, leaving them briefly alone.
“I’m fine,” Tristan said. “Don’t worry about me.
”
He was more than fine. He was alive. Blood was coursing through his veins; his heart was beating in his chest. He wanted to laugh, to sing and shout. He wanted to snatch Dylan out of her chair and throw his arms around her, swing her round in circles.
Instead he slowly, carefully, wheeled her into the main room where Joan was waiting for them.
“I need to get some things from the shop,” she announced. “I won’t be long.” Her eyes narrowed as they flicked from Tristan to Dylan and back again. “Dylan’s room is out of bounds when I am not in the flat. No exceptions.”
Tristan considered her resolute expression, her clenched jaw.
“All right,” he said. He’d no intention of following through on the rule, but if it would appease Joan and give him some time alone with Dylan, he’d agree to just about anything.
Joan seemed suspicious of his easy capitulation, but she swept out without further comment, only pausing to put a gentle hand on Dylan’s shoulder as she passed. Dylan wasn’t paying attention, didn’t see the relief and worry that went into that one small touch, but Tristan did. Dylan had told him that her relationship with her mum was often fraught and tense, but the love between the two of them was palpable.
The moment ended and Joan left.
At last, it was just Tristan and Dylan.
Unable to do anything else, Tristan folded himself over the back of the wheelchair and drew Dylan into a hug. Tucking his face into the crook of her neck, he let himself breathe her in. Feel her skin, warm and alive and in his arms.
“Tristan,” Dylan whispered. Her hands reached up to clutch him closer to her. It was awkward – the wheelchair digging into his stomach and his knee pressing into the rear wheel, but Tristan couldn’t make himself move. This was perfect. Heaven. He was half-convinced that if he moved so much as a muscle, it would all be snatched away from him. He’d blink and be back in the wasteland. Alone.
He was so lost in the moment that at first he didn’t notice the subtle shaking of Dylan’s shoulders. It wasn’t until he caught the quiet hitch of her breathing that he realised she was crying.
“Dylan? Am I hurting you?” He wrenched away, horrified. He spun round to the front of the wheelchair and knelt, peering into Dylan’s face. Sure enough, tears were streaking down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean to—”
The almost violent shaking of her head stopped his words in his throat.
“It’s not that.” Her voice was tight and shaky. “I just… I can’t believe it. You’re here. Really here.” She hiccupped a laugh. “You’re standing in my crappy living room.”
“Well, technically I’m kneeling.” Tristan went for a tiny smile, tucking a stray lock of hair back behind Dylan’s ear.
“Shut up.” She shoved at him playfully, then she leaned forward and planted her forehead on his chest. It was as close as they could get to each other from this angle, with her leg cast sticking out awkwardly in front of her. Tristan rubbed her back gently, making sure to stop well short of her bandages.
She was so battered and bruised. It had been more than he could bear to see her brought out of the train tunnel on a stretcher. Now here he was, whole and well, while Dylan was struggling with injuries that should have killed her. That had killed her.
And she’d suffered that for him.
“I love you,” he whispered into her hair.
Dylan made an inarticulate sound and lifted her head up to stare into his eyes.
“I love you, too.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling. “I told you so.”
“What?” Tristan blinked, confused.
“I promise I’ll only say it this once – well, twice,” Dylan laughed, “but I told you it would work!”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, you did.” Tristan’s lips twisted into a rueful grin. “On this one occasion, I’m OK with being wrong.” His grin stretched a little wider, “And at least you’re the only one who’ll know.”
He looked around the room, took in the slightly sagging couch jazzed up with new cushions.
“Let’s get you out of the chair.”
“All right.” Dylan put both hands on the arm rests, ready to lever herself upright, but Tristan halted her with a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” he told her.
“I know,” she replied, smiling.
Once again, lamenting his new human body, he strained every muscle to lower her slowly, gently, down onto the cushions. He moved to straighten up, but Dylan snagged his hand and tugged him down to sit beside her.
He didn’t fight the pull – there was nowhere else he wanted to be. The closer the better.
“How do you feel?” Dylan asked him quietly.
“How do I feel?” He shifted round to shoot her a quizzical look. “I’m not the one who was just in a fatal train crash!”
“I know,” Dylan waved a hand in the air as if that didn’t matter. “I mean, how do you feel here? Is it any different? Do you… do you feel solid?”
The hold she had on his hand squeezed a little tighter, as if she also believed he might evaporate out of existence. He squeezed back reassuringly.
“I feel solid,” he agreed. “And…” He frowned, really considering it. There was a tightness at his temples, a heaviness behind his eyes. And a gnawing sensation in his stomach. “Tired, I think. but my stomach… I guess I’m hungry.” Another pang twisted. “Really hungry. God, that’s a horrible sensation.”
“You’ll have to wait till my mum gets back for anything decent,” Dylan said, “but there’s probably some biscuits or something in the kitchen.”
Following Dylan’s instructions, he managed to locate Joan’s old-fashioned shortbread tin above the microwave. He brought back as many as he could fit in one hand and passed half the stack to Dylan.
“Chocolate digestives,” Dylan wrinkled her nose. “These aren’t the best biscuits, but they’ll fill a hole.”
She stuffed an entire round into her mouth, chewed quickly and swallowed. Tristan watched her, then looked down at the three biscuits in his own hand. The chocolate coating was melting against his fingers.
Dylan watched him with interest before finally speaking. “You didn’t try eating in the hospital?”
Tristan shook his head slowly, his gaze still on the food.
“Your mum offered but I was just… I was too worried about you to think about it. I had some water but—”
“Do you know how to do it?” A sharp glance up assured him Dylan wasn’t making fun of him, that it was a genuine question.
“I know how to do it,” he said. “It’s just—”
“It’s a big moment,” Dylan finished for him. The left side of her mouth quirked up. “Sorry it’s not something more impressive than a McVities.”
“This is great,” he said. “And anyway, I’ve heard lots of good things about chocolate.”
Not wanting to put it off any longer – because then he’d be forced to admit to himself that he was a little bit apprehensive – Tristan lifted the biscuit to his mouth and bit off a chunk.
It crumbled against his lips. When he began chewing, sweetness burst across his tongue. Saliva pooled and mixed with the pulped-up food until he felt the need to swallow. He paused, expecting to feel the lump in his throat, odd and uncomfortable, but there was nothing except the demand for more. Before he realised it, he was licking the remnants of chocolate from his fingers.
“Well…?” Dylan prodded, watching him carefully.
“I think I like chocolate.”
That made her throw her head back and let out a peal of laughter.
“We should have started you on something more boring. Everything else is going to be an anti-climax now.” She tilted her head to the side, a tiny furrow between her eyebrows as she considered. “I think you’ll like pizza, too. And crisps. Crisps are amazing.”
A moment of silence passed before Dylan reached out to take Tristan’s hand again.“Are you glad you’re here?” She paused. “Did we do the right
thing, do you think?”
“Is that a real question?” Tristan waited until Dylan met his gaze. She gave him a hesitant nod. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be, Dylan. I swear it to you.”
She rewarded his words with another sweet smile, the one she always gave him when she forgot herself. It was a while before she spoke again.
“What have you said to Joan? About us, I mean. When I was having my X-ray?”
“I said I was your boyfriend,” Tristan replied. “She asked why she’d never heard of me and I kind of mumbled something about you not being ready to tell her yet. She wasn’t happy.”
“She won’t let it go, you know,” Dylan said. “She’ll push and push until she gets proper answers from us. I don’t know what to tell her. I mean, what the hell do we say? The truth? Can you imagine?”
“Shhh,” Tristan soothed. He could see that Dylan was getting upset, agitated. “Angel, it can’t be the truth – you know that. We’ll think of something. It’ll be all right.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Tristan drew her to him, resting his forehead against the top of her head. “We’ll figure it out later. Right now, I just want to hold you.”
“Is that all?” Dylan breathed. She twisted, lifting her face, and Tristan was already dipping down to meet her when pain ripped through her expression.
“What’s wrong?” Tristan pulled back, his eyes raking over Dylan’s body, searching.
“It’s nothing,” Dylan protested, though her face was bone white. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re injured and you need to heal. Here.” Rising, he rearranged the cushions on the sofa and gently pushed Dylan back onto them. “Rest.”
“I don’t want to rest,” Dylan pouted. “I want you to kiss me.”
“I will,” Tristan said. “When you’re better.”
“That’ll take ages!”
He laughed. “I’m not going anywhere. We have all the time in the world now.”
Dylan’s disgruntled snort, the adorably put-out look on her face, almost had him giving in, but at that moment Joan came banging back into the flat. She appeared at the living-room door a heartbeat later, her face flushed like she’d run the whole way.
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