Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  I can’t pretend his words don’t sting, no matter how much I know they shouldn’t. What did I think, that we were going to chat about Grams over some tea and scones? That the company of another person might fill the void in his heart enough for him to set aside the liquor for a few hours? Silly, naïve Lou.

  My jaw is tight when I respond through clenched teeth, “Perfectly.”

  “Good,” he grunts, like he’s relieved to be rid of me. “Now I’d appreciate some silence while I continue my escape.” He whirls around, steadies himself on the cane, and takes another uneven step toward the gate before muttering, “Takes a shitload of concentration to avoid falling on my ass.”

  A smile tugs on my lips even as I roll my eyes. Just in case a miracle happens and he suddenly sees through his pride enough to ask for a helping hand, I stay rooted in place until he passes through the gates and disappears from view. Then I return to the house and get to work. That’s something I got from Grams, keeping my hands busy whenever my mind feels overwhelmed. Nothing like a good distraction to give one’s mind a little clarity, she’d say.

  The thought of Grams makes Mr. Blackwood’s words replay in my head. The least I can do is give her granddaughter some work. What could she have done for him? What could have made such a lasting impression on someone like him?

  Five hours later, the mounds of questions eating at me are actually causing my head to ache. I’m light-headed as I finish up with the vacuum, and for the first time since working here, I need to take a five-minute rest break. Shit, I hope I’m not getting sick again. That’d have to be some kind of record, right?

  But why won’t he answer a single question? Just one? He and Grams have that in common, the desire to keep a tight lid on their pasts, and it’s driving me freaking crazy. The creepy messages, all the drinking, his supposed research, his lack of family or friends, his mysterious relationship with Grams . . . it doesn’t paint a very comforting picture.

  It’s one thing for someone to end up so alone out of pure spite, but something deep in my gut tells me there’s more to Mr. Blackwood’s story. That his loneliness has been shaped by circumstance, rather than carved by his own hand. Maybe it’s the moments of sadness that pass through his eyes, or maybe it’s my own somber past that has me seeking out similarities in his. I don’t know. For whatever reason, I can’t stand to see him suffer like this. He’s downright killing himself.

  Nope, no more. I decide right here and now that I’m a grown ass woman, and if I want answers, I’m going to get them myself. I slowly rise to my feet, taking a deep breath until I’m certain I’m not going to pass out from the nausea that’s been creeping up on me, and move my gaze to the filing system stowed beneath the coffee table. I bet there are plenty of answers crammed into that little container. If Mr. Blackwood refuses to talk to me, I’ve got to explore other options, right?

  Just one peek. One teeny, tiny peek.

  I take a step toward it. Then another. I reach forward, my hand only inches away—ah, hell. Who am I kidding? I can’t do it. Can’t cross that line. Clearly, I need to grow some balls.

  In the meantime, there is another option that comes to mind.

  The walk home is longer than usual, thanks to my increasing fatigue. I get a text from Bobby on the way that makes me laugh, though, which is nice. A few days ago, he accidentally sent me a random picture of his shoe, so I sent him a picture of a doorknob. And so a tradition was born. Yesterday our theme was windows, and today it’s apparently sidewalks. I smile and slip the phone back into my pocket, making a mental note to text him later.

  My legs are shaking by the time I pull open the inn’s front door.

  “Oh my gosh, Lou. Are you okay?”

  Judging by Claire’s greeting, I look fantastic right now.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not as bad as it looks,” I lie, leaning onto her desk for support. “I was wondering . . . your mom knows everything about everything around here, right?”

  She laughs. “That’s what she likes to tell us, yes. Why? What’s up?”

  “I was hoping I could talk to her? It’s about Mr. Blackwood.”

  “Oh, no.” Her face falls in an instant, blonde brows knitting together. “I’d heard the rumors, but I try not to listen to them. He’s really as bad as they say?”

  “No, no, it’s not that. He’s fine. I just—I have a few questions.”

  “Sure. Well, you called it—my mom’s the best person for the job. In fact, she’s probably home right now if you want to . . .” Her words trail off as her nose scrunches up. “Um, well, maybe you should wait till tomorrow? After you rest some?”

  I groan, becoming more nauseous with each passing second. “Yeah, probably a good idea. Where will I be able to find her tomorrow?”

  “She’s helping with setups for the weekend festival. It’s right on Clark Street.”

  “Great. Thanks, Claire.”

  “Yup, anytime. Hope you feel better soon.” She flashes me a warm smile.

  “So do I.”

  Just as I start up the stairs, I hear her voice call from behind me, “And be sure to call the front desk if you need anything! Maybe Paul will share some of his . . . medicinal herbs . . . with you.”

  I can’t help but laugh at that, and I can hear her own giggle fade behind me as I slowly progress up the steps. By the time I reach my level at the top, I swear the hallway is spinning. The floor moves below my feet, and I’m impressed I’ve made it this far as I fumble with my key. I barely manage to close the door behind me before I head straight for the bed, so ready to collapse. Except I can’t stop swaying. Or the room won’t quit moving, it’s one of those. Almost there. Just a few more steps now.

  Crap, it’s hot in here. Or is it cold? Am I even walking anymore? My vision is closing in on me, the shape of my bed gradually losing form. No, no, it’s definitely warm. I know this heat. His warmth. It’s here. Behind me. No, in front of me? My eyes squint, trying to latch onto something solid, but it’s all blending together . . . the bed, the loveseat, the nightstand. I can’t make them stop spinning.

  “H-hello?” I stutter. My voice sounds like someone else’s. A far off, muffled noise. “Are you here?”

  Seconds later, another wave of heat pours over me from head to toe. A heavy blanket settling over my body. He’s here. He must be. I feel him. Right?

  Jesus, I don’t know what’s real or what’s in my head anymore.

  My neck, scalp, shoulders, toes—that heat, it’s everywhere, hot breaths brushing over every inch of me. But something, something’s wrong. I can’t pinpoint it. Every second of contact he has with me is also a moment of absence, every stroke of heat mixed with ice. It’s like the warm blanket wrapped around me has been punctured, and sharp icicles stab through its holes until I finally start to break down and shiver.

  The clouded blur of my vision deepens, swirls of darkness taking over, and my bones ache beyond belief. I’m losing strength by the second, losing any part of myself that feels solid. My knees buckle, giving out from beneath me. I should be collapsing, but I can’t tell if I am. I don’t feel any muscles holding me up, even my neck has turned to mush, and by now all I see is pitch black.

  Somehow, I know I’m no longer standing in my room.

  What’s happening to me?

  My body, I’m drifting. Floating in a black void.

  I’ve never heard a silence like this before. It’s not like the night of my car accident, when the lightning filled my eardrums with a resounding echo. No, at least that kind of silence offered me something to hold onto. Something to fill the void. This here, it’s not even a shell. No walls exist to catch an echo, no air brushes my skin, and I don’t need to see to know it’s deserted in the most literal form of the word.

  I can’t hear my heartbeat or my breaths. Don’t know if I’m alive or dead. The single feeling I’m left with is an impossible sense of abandonment. It’s a cold sensation. So numbingly cold. Not the kind that makes you shiver. The kind of cold that
completely bypasses your flesh, reaching into your core and ripping your very soul open with a single slice, until it’s raw and naked.

  And it’s the scariest moment of my life.

  A sudden hot spark ignites in my fingertips, making me gasp, and a large hand wraps around my own through the darkness.

  It’s him.

  I reach out with my free hand, grasping desperately for any part of him I can get. Anything but this. Please, please make it stop.

  There’s no way to spot him in the sea of black, and I’m grappling blindly with empty air until the hand holding mine squeezes and tugs me forward. I collide straight into his solid warmth. One strong arm wraps around my waist while the other comes up around my shoulders, fingers in my hair. He’s holding me so tightly I don’t even realize I’m crying until my body starts to tremble against his.

  Piece by piece, his warmth sews me back together. My heartbeat finds its rhythm, air flows through my lungs, colors float into view as the darkness dissipates. The round rug, the rocking chair, the fireplace . . . I’m back in my room.

  I don’t know how much time passes before his grip loosens. Hair matted to my cheeks from my silent stream of tears, I finally look up to face him. Those steely grey-black eyes pierce into mine, unreadable and daunting. His jaw is locked, lips pressed in a tight line.

  He’s angry.

  I don’t remember doing it, but my arms are wrapped around his neck, my fingers tangled in his thick hair. I drop my arms quickly, but he’s the one who pulls away. It’s not much, but it’s enough to leave me feeling strange and unsteady, knees weak. His eyes are locked on mine. Or maybe it’s the other way around. For a moment, no one speaks. The tension building between us is like a tangible force, a heavy current emitting from him and ricocheting off me.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Chapter 29

  It takes me a minute to find my voice, and I’m still breathless when I do. “Is that where you . . .” How do I even ask this question? Live just doesn’t seem like the right word here, so I finish with, “Stay?”

  As though the sound of my voice triggers something inside him, all at once his rigid stance diminishes and he’s whirling around so his back is to me. He rakes both hands through his hair, then clasps them behind his neck as he inhales a long, uneven breath. He waits a full three seconds before letting his arms drop and turning to face me.

  His eyes are different now, the green gleaming through. There’s a rough edge to his voice, like a bomb trying to contain itself before it goes off. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m—yes. I think so—”

  “You should lie down. You need rest.” He’s scooped me up before I can process what’s happening, then takes steady, measured steps toward the bed. I would protest but it’d only be a waste of breath; we both know how weak I still am.

  The blankets puff up around me as he sets me down, my head falling lightly on a pillow. He releases me and even though I still feel the soft strokes of his heat, I can’t suppress a shiver at the loss of his touch. He reaches toward the foot of the bed to retrieve the silky throw, laying it delicately over my body. Then he plucks up the rocking chair as though it weighs nothing, places it beside the bed, and sinks heavily down.

  He avoids meeting my gaze, but I’m watching closely as he leans forward, eyes flashing brightly, jaw clenching. There’s so much emotion bottled up inside him, waiting to burst, that I can’t seem to single out any one more than the others.

  “Hey.” I keep my voice gentle. “It’s okay. I’m okay now, thanks to you.”

  He closes his eyes at my words, his lips pressing together in a hard line. “You were pulled in there, thanks to me.”

  “What?” I sit up, adjusting myself so my back rests against the headboard. “You can’t seriously think that what happened tonight is your fault.”

  His eyes flash open, centering on me. “It is my fault, Lou. You should never have been able to cross over while your heart still beats. It could have . . . it could have killed you. Or worse.”

  I frown. “I can’t think of anything worse than if it’d killed me.”

  He shakes his head, another quick tick of his jaw. “And let’s keep it that way. Tell me how it happened.”

  “I—I don’t really know,” I murmur, my frown deepening. “One minute I was feeling sick, and the next I was . . . there.”

  His brow raises. “You were sick again?”

  “Well, not totally. It was just starting, I think. It hit me hard, all at once.” I pause, mentally reviewing this past week. “Actually, ever since that last fever I’ve been feeling a little off—”

  “How so?”

  I shrug. “Dizzy spells. Fatigue. Not all the time, but enough for it to be annoying.”

  “And your heart?”

  “My heart?”

  “Yes,” he growls impatiently. Then he pauses, eyes falling closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose. His tone is strained when he calmly clarifies, “Have you noticed any differences with your heart?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” I have to stop again to think about it, but it doesn’t take long to remember the way my heart started fluttering the first day I’d been ill. “Yeah, when I had that fever. My heartbeat felt different. It wasn’t steady like usual, but more like a flutter. It was fast and light and just strange. Almost like it wasn’t really . . . like it wasn’t fully beating.” Oh, shit. Suddenly that sounds really, really bad.

  He lets out a deep breath, then hangs his head low to his chest for a few seconds before bringing his now heavy gaze back up to mine. “Of course,” he mutters, leaning back against the seat and pursing his lips.

  “‘Of course’ what? Did I miss something?”

  He shakes his head, his fingers rubbing his jaw. “No. I did.” He bites the words out. “I should have known this could happen.”

  “What could happen?”

  “Your body, it’s . . . adjusting. Acclimating itself to my world.”

  My eyes just about pop out of their sockets. “Excuse me?” I’m not adding anything useful to this conversation, but I can’t seem to assimilate anything properly right now.

  “In order for you to fully cross into my world, your body would have to be . . . well, less body, and more soul.”

  I blink. “Except, I’m definitely body.” I flip the throw off of me in demonstration and run my hands up and down my waist, my hips. “All body. See?”

  His eyelids lower, gaze clinging to each spot my hands touch. A thick swallow passes through his throat, and I realize I should probably stop groping myself in front of him. “Yes,” he all but groans, “I do see.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble as I scrunch my face, pulling the throw back over me. Such a tease.

  He rips his eyes away, scrubbing a hand down his face as though to clear his mind. “Do you remember what I told you before about the universe being confused? Blurring us together?”

  I nod. I get the feeling I’m not going to like where this is going.

  He pushes himself up from the chair, taking the single step toward my bed until he’s close enough to touch. He doesn’t sit though, just hovers over me, his heat tickling my skin and his blazing eyes devouring mine. “Lou.” It’s just my name, but his voice is smooth, low, and caresses parts of me I didn’t know a voice could reach. “Give me your hand.”

  I comply without thinking. His own large hand wraps fully around mine, shooting a ripple of warmth straight up my arm, down my chest, and pooling low in my stomach. He raises my hand until it rests palm-down on his chest. Now it’s my turn to swallow. My gaze flickers from his face to his chest, unsure of where to land.

  “Do you feel it?” he murmurs.

  I pause, focusing my attention on the hard lines pressed up against the palm of my hand. I’m just about to ask what he’s referring to, when a soft thump beats beneath my touch. And then another. And another. It’s faint, barely noticeable in fact, but it’s there. I lift my chin to see his face, my voice almost a
whisper when I say, “I feel it.”

  His lips curve up, just on one side and not enough to show his dimple. The natural brightness of his eyes seems to have dimmed somehow, and I realize there’s something broken about this smile. “I’m not supposed to have a heartbeat.” With my hand still against his chest, the soft rumble of his voice vibrates through my body. “See, my body started adjusting too, Lou. For your world, for you. I couldn’t fully be here, all of me, until my heart began to beat.”

  I don’t like the sadness coloring his tone, the foreboding look in his eyes. I smile up at him, eyelashes batting. “Are you saying that your heart literally beats for me, Gumdrop?”

  His dimple flashes then, his eyes brightening gorgeously for a moment before quieting back down. “I think I’m saying that and more, Lou.”

  My smile falters as I try to process his words. There’s no trace of humor in them, like there had been in mine. The way my heart squeezes at his response makes me seriously hope I’m not reading more into it than he intended. Before I have the chance to overthink it any further, he removes my hand from his chest and takes a step back, quietly lowering himself back into the rocking chair.

  The sudden silence surrounding us makes me realize how tired I am, physically and mentally. I’m an aching mess from my head to my toes, and my heart is filling with a worry I don’t quite understand. “What’s going to happen to me? To both of us?”