Sinning Forever

by Heidi Lowe

  She twisted to face her pack. "Guys, take a look at the rarest thing on the planet."

  "Listen," I said, grabbing her by the scruff of her neck. "Tell me what you mean by all of this."

  She continued laughing, and didn't seem at all fazed by my seizure of her.

  Eventually I released her, in the hope that she would start talking. And when those unusual blue-gray eyes met mine, the laughter died away. "You really don't know, do you?"

  "Know what?"

  "What you are? What she did to you? What she took from you? You poor bitch."

  I shook my head, unable to speak, suddenly terrified. Not of them, but of the answers I'd come looking for.

  "The bite wouldn't have killed you, it would have made you one of us. A Were. That was my way of getting back at both of you simultaneously. Because if you were like me, you would hate each other."

  My body went weak. "B–but I'm not like you..."

  "I know that. You said she saved you. But from what? Ask yourself that? Because it wasn't from death."

  My eyes searched hers for signs of jest, but all I saw was joy, joy at my confusion, at my anguish.

  "You mean...you mean..." The words wouldn't come out. They were too unthinkable to voice, too unimaginable to consider. "I wasn't dying?"

  She shook her head, grinning from ear to ear.

  "Your beloved robbed you of a life, of mortality, of freedom from the night. But she couldn't even get that right. You're not like her, or us. You, Lissa, are in between." She whispered this close to my ear, then started cackling again.

  "How is that even possible?" one man chimed in, clearly not seeing the funny side to any of this. "Hybrids don't exist. They're the thing of fantasies."

  A hybrid?

  Another man stepped forward. "But look at her. Feel that energy. She may not repulse us like they do, but there's a resistance to her presence. That's the only explanation for this phenomenon. She's a hybrid."

  Suddenly a spectacle, tears rolling down my cheeks, I looked for sympathy in Dallas's eyes, but found none.

  "I don't believe you," I cried, shaking my head. "You're lying."

  "Then explain why you're not trying to tear into us with your fangs? You've seen how real vampires and Weres react to each other."

  "There has to be another explanation," I said.

  "There isn't. Your beloved saw what you were going to become, but instead of setting you free, she tried to play God. And she failed. My guess is your Were side has been popping up the whole time. This is too good."

  The laughter began again, magnified, it seemed, by my weeping.

  "The perfect end to someone like you." She was in my face again, eyes glistening with spite. "You took my family from me, and now you're going to suffer for eternity. On the fringe, never quite fitting in with either side."

  She pulled out a dagger cloaked in a leather scabbard, and handed it to me. "Here. You might need it."

  When I unsheathed it, the platinum blade glistened.

  "Let's get out of here," one of the men said, stamped out the fire, and the four of them stole away into the night, leaving me alone. Alone with the truth.

  The smell of smoke filled my lungs. The tears stung my eyes. I clasped firmly to the dagger.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  They would never be the best of friends, that much was certain. It seemed, when it came to Jean, that the women in her life couldn't get along. First Lissa and Robyn had butted heads, and she'd written off the possibility of a mutual civility after a while (though, since Lissa's transformation, she had to admit that the fighting had stopped); now Lissa and Clara. Her daughter and the woman with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life. It saddened her greatly that they clashed.

  As she sat in her office, ruminating over the conversation she'd had the previous night with Clara, she wondered whether she'd been too hard on her.

  "It's not your place to talk about the merits of my relationship with Lissa," she'd said in as firm a voice as she could manage without sounding too reprimanding. "I don't appreciate the comments you've made."

  "Whatever I said wasn't meant to insult. It's not my fault that she took it to heart." Her sulking had made Jean wistful, realizing that she'd missed out on the adolescent tantrums Clara had thrown, and the scolding that went along with them.

  "All I'm asking is that you be mindful of how you speak to her. She's very sensitive."

  At which point Clara's eyes seemed to turn a darker shade of brown when she said, "So nice that you remember how to be a mother to someone else's child."

  That hurt. Up until then all of their exchanges had been friendly – loving, even. But, she learned fast, no child, even one in their mid-thirties, liked being reprimanded.

  That was the way they'd left things that night, but they were okay the following evening. From what she could tell, there didn't seem to be any lasting damage to their fledgling relationship. It worried her nonetheless. With only three weeks left of her stay, Jean didn't want to give her any reason to break off contact when she returned to Europe. Now that she had her back, she couldn't bear to lose her again.

  She glimpsed the time on her laptop screen: nine p.m. She just needed to send a couple of emails, make an online bank transfer, then she could go and pick up Lissa.

  Lissa. Jean's face lit up at the very thought of her. The night before they'd spent three hours in a stranger's bed making love. Intense yet sweet love, and made promises to love each other until their final breath. Once she was back home, she would shower her with kisses, remind her that her place was there, with her, so that she didn't think twice about running off again.

  It was in this transfixed state, with a goofy smile sitting comfortably on her lips, that Lissa found her when she opened the office door.

  "Lissa," she said, startled. "Honey, I was just about to pick you up."

  Jean observed the strange look on her face. Somewhat vacant, as though she'd simply wandered into the house without realizing it. Was this the wolf? She couldn't say.

  "I'm here," Lissa said. She closed the door behind her and made a slow, steady approach to Jean, her eyes on her the whole time. Then she perched herself on the edge of the desk, in front of Jean.

  "Are you all right?" Jean asked, eying her warily.

  "Apart from being dead, you mean?" Lissa laughed, though it didn't sound sincere, and her eyes didn't join in.

  A kiss would solve everything, Jean mused, and pulled her down into one. Reassurance that she'd made the right choice in coming home. There was nothing but love here, with her.

  But the kiss felt empty. Ultimately because she was the only one taking part in it. Lissa barely parted her lips to let her in.

  She turned away, back to her screen, to close her laptop down, and then devote the rest of the night to making love to Lissa. She turned away, also, because Lissa's stare unnerved her.

  "I spoke to Clara. You shouldn't have any more problems with her from now on."

  "Thank you. You always look out for me. I knew I could trust you."

  There was something robotic about her words, a slightly sarcastic tone that rang through. Or was she imagining it?

  "I can trust you, can't I?"

  Nervously, "Of course. Always."

  "You wouldn't lie to me again, or keep any more secrets? I need to know that before I come home."

  She didn't look her in the eye when she replied, "No, never." Perhaps she should have, and maybe what happened next wouldn't have transpired. Perhaps Lissa might have believed her.

  Lissa sighed, looked away, was still for a moment. Then she got up, removed the dagger from her back pocket, slipped it out of its scabbard, and slammed it on the desk.

  Jean gawked at the blade, panic hitting her. Lissa leaned in close, and said in the most menacing whisper, "Do you know why I have this?"

  It could have been one of two reasons, but somehow she knew, deep down, it was what she'd most feared. This wasn't the wolf talking, this was Lissa. And she k
new!

  The tears fell so suddenly, before she could stop them. She nodded quickly.

  "Why?" Lissa's breath was hot against her face.

  "Because...because you know."

  "Yeah, I do."

  "Lissa, I–"

  "Shut up." She didn't shout it, which made it more terrifying to hear. She was so calm, so chilling in that calmness. Like she had progressed from fury into...whatever this was. "You don't say a word now. You had ample chances to speak, to tell me what you did."

  She picked up the dagger, and Jean gasped as she watched her twist and twirl the blade into the wood of the desk. She looked every bit the killer. Jean didn't dare speak.

  "You know, I always did find it strange how angry you got when you found out I was looking for Dallas. I never understood it. Now, it makes sense."

  "And silly me thought it was out of jealousy." She cackled maniacally. "Can you believe that? So naive. You can't really blame me, though. I mean, who would have guessed what was really in that cold, black heart of yours?"

  She wanted to defend her heart, defend herself, to try and make her see that everything she'd done was out of love, but she kept quiet, crying her silent tears.

  "You sat there and watched me suffer, knowing what I was, and what was wrong with me. I've been going crazy for months, unable to attribute my violent mood swings to anything. And there you were, with the truth, keeping it from me. Just like you always have."

  Her sobs came out louder.

  "Look at me!" Lissa ordered, grabbing her face. "I want you to take a good, long look at what you've done."

  "I'm sorry," she said, finally able to get the words out, though they didn't feel sufficient. No apology would ever be sufficient. She knew that.

  "In your selfish need to keep me close to you, you took life away from me. A life I could have lived. A life that wouldn't have my sister hating me, or my friends afraid of me. In playing God, you destroyed my world. Look at me!" She squeezed her face at the jaw. "Now I'm a freak of nature. Not one thing or the other. I don't fit into any world."

  "You do. You fit into mine."

  A humorless laugh. "Your world? I would rather be dead than live in it with you."

  "I did it for us, Lissa. You have to believe that. We would never have been able to be together. I couldn't let that happen."

  "That wasn't your choice to make!" she shouted, pressing the blade of the dagger to Jean's neck. The skin scorched and Jean let out a cry. "You didn't do it for us, you did it for yourself."

  She drew the blade slowly, agonizingly along the bottom of her chin, leaving a scorching red line in Jean's flesh. Her screams echoed around the room. She could have stopped it, stopped the torture, but she didn't want to. After all the pain she'd caused Lissa, it was time for her to feel some of her own.

  "How long have you known what I am?"

  "I only became sure when you had that dream – when you walked during the day. It wasn't a dream."

  The dagger dropped from Lissa's hand, clanged on the desk. "I wasn't dreaming? You mean I actually woke up?"

  Jean nodded. "Sandra saw you. It happened just as you said."

  Disillusioned, disoriented, Lissa gawped at her. "So I can still walk during the day?"

  "I think it's sporadic. But you can't step into the sunlight. You'll burn."

  Whatever little smidgen of hope that had been restored vanished then. She still couldn't enjoy the daytime with everyone else; she was still a prisoner of the night, and would always be one. Only, she would be a slave to the moon, too. A monster in both realms. Not one or the other.

  "Please, Lissa, let me explain."

  "I don't need your explanation. I used to think I was the one who was obsessed with you. But I was wrong. You're obsessed with me. You always have been. Creeping into my life, controlling every aspect of it, just so I would stay with you. This is how you always wanted me – immortal, inhuman, soulless, just like you."

  "That's not true! I love you more than anything in this world. I didn't want you to die. I never wanted you to die. But I couldn't let you become one of them. We would hate each other; we could never be together."

  Lissa grabbed her face again, and when she spoke, her lips brushed her cheek. Unfortunately, there was nothing sexual about it:

  "I want you to listen really carefully to what I'm about to say, just so there's no confusion. I never want to see you again."

  At this, a sob burst from Jean's lips, from her gut. These were the words that haunted her dreams, that she had always known were close. When she'd set off on her path to keep yet another secret from Lissa, she'd known the risks. Still, it didn't make the words easier to hear.

  "You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Right from the start. You have brought nothing but pain. I came here to kill you tonight, just end it, though I'm sure when Dallas handed me the dagger, she meant for me to use it on myself."

  "Kill me, then! Do it. I can't live without you anyway," Jean cried.

  "No, you're going to fucking live. And every day, when you wake up in that empty coffin, and you think about me, you'll know that I'm not thinking about you. In time, you'll be nothing but a distant, disgusting memory." Once those lips would have kissed; now, they threatened.

  "Don't call me. Don't come looking for me. Don't write. Even if the temptation to contact me comes, ignore it. There will never be a time in the future when I'll be happy to see you. Do you understand?"

  Jean continued sobbing.

  "I said, do you understand?" Lissa yelled, yanking her by the hair.

  "Yes." The word was barely audible, muffled by her wailing.

  "Good."

  Though her vision was blurry, she made every effort to watch Lissa leave, knowing it would be the last time she saw her.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Oliver sent the women home, all of them, when I showed up on his doorstep with everything I owned.

  "This isn't what I imagined reconciliation would look like," he'd said, giving a cursory look to the large suitcase and torn black bag.

  "It's over," was all I could bear to say, then ran up to my room and locked myself in. I spent the rest of the night bawling my eyes out, cursing the ground Jean walked on, scolding myself for not ending her sorry life.

  But no, I wasn't the killer, she was. First my mother, then me. She wouldn't stop until she'd taken everything from me.

  Well, she had. I had nothing, no one. The last time I'd been delivered a blow like this, from one of her secrets, I'd at least had my humanity. That was gone.

  Oliver stopped asking me what had happened at the house after a few nights, and just accepted that I was there to stay, whether he liked it or not.

  "Well, I for one am thrilled that you finally came to your senses and ditched the bitch," he said, one night while we took turns sharing a brunette he'd picked up outside a restaurant.

  She tasted like the cheap wine she'd consumed at dinner, but sweet all the same. She was cute, too. If she liked women, I decided she would be the first woman I had after Jean. For no particular reason other than I was lonely, horny, and she was there. If she could make me forget that other person, that witch who'd destroyed my life, she could have me as many times as she wanted. It was open season, as far as I was concerned. Time to get as promiscuous as everyone else in the race.

  "So am I," I said, wiping the remnants of the girl from my mouth. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

  "That's the spirit," Oliver said.

  My words were easy enough to say, but far more difficult to feel. Because the truth was, I wasn't quite there yet. At that point where she meant nothing to me, where I could simply disregard the love I had for her. If it were that easy to forget, it meant it had never been real.

  She had no doubt expected me to tell her I hated her, and it would have been my right to. Except, that didn't represent my true feelings. It wasn't hate that had driven me to press the dagger to her flesh, watch her scream in agony as the metal burned her skin. Nor wa
s it hate that prompted me to tell her I never wanted to see her again. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  When I was alone in my room again, I cried while hugging the pillow to myself. Crying seemed to be the only recourse left to deal with the heartache. I imagined her doing the same with her pillow, the one I used. Maybe it still carried my scent.

  She would never know that I didn't hate her; that was my revenge. She would live her life not knowing that it wasn't her decision to turn me that had destroyed me, but her insistence on hiding it from me. That was why I'd left.

  An impossible situation, a choice between life and love. Not her decision to make, but someone had to make it. Would I have chosen differently?

  I already knew the answer to that. No, and it wouldn't have taken me long to decide. I loved her more than the sun, or my favorite cooked meal. I would have chosen to be like her, with her. I would have chosen love over life. What would my world have looked like as a werewolf? Well, for starters, my anger and violence toward her would have been incessant, every second of every day. I wouldn't have been able to look at her and see the woman I loved, merely an enemy of my race. For her, the same. My only love sprung from my only hate, like Romeo and Juliet.

  I didn't blame her for turning me.

  No, it was her lie after the fact, the perpetual lying and secrecy, that had pushed me over the edge. Our entire relationship had been built on a lie. We'd finally overcome that, only for her to shield me from another big secret. I couldn't trust her anymore. How easily the lies had spilled from her mouth, as though they were truths. Like the notion of being honest was an afterthought, a last resort once she had exhausted all her lies. How could anyone stay with a person like that? Someone who could watch me suffer and keep quiet, knowing the cause of my demons. It made me sick to the stomach to think about it. It made me question whether she had ever truly loved me.

  Rosie embraced me when I entered the gallery a few evenings later. She smelled of jasmine, and her eyes were large and sympathetic.