by Lund, S. E.
Still, he says nothing. Just holds me tightly.
He knows…
Then he lifts my chin with a finger, wiping my tears away with his other hand.
"You are so beautiful in every way."
He leans down and kisses me, his kiss chaste. When he does, I wish I'd never met Julien. But I have and now I can't get Julien out of my mind. Part of me wants neither of them, but as Julien said, if I don't choose one, by default I choose Soren, for he's the most powerful of the Ancients – or whatever he is. I still haven't figured that out yet.
Michel sits back down and we continue to eat in silence. My mind is unable to leave Soren behind and I decide to push Michel for information. He can't protest – he wants me to make this huge decision and I need to know more before I can.
"What is Soren?" I say. "He's not just an Ancient."
Michel sits back, frowning. He doesn't say anything for a few moments as if debating with himself on whether to tell me.
"What do you think he is? You met him."
"That's not fair," I say. "You know what he is. Why won't you just tell me? He told me that I was wrong about what he is. That must mean he's not an Ancient. Is he Grigori?"
Michel pushes food around on his plate without looking at me. Finally, he speaks and his voice is almost a whisper.
"He is less than Grigori. More than an Ancient. When he fed the first time, it wasn't on a human. It was on his maker – his father. He killed his father, a Nephilim. That made him more powerful."
"What is his plan? He doesn't want to lead Blackstone. What does he want?"
"Eve," he says and shakes his head. "I can't tell you. How many times do I have to repeat that?"
"Why? You want me to just trust you, come with you, to be your little blood slave, and help you stop him, but you won't tell me." And then I pull out my trump card. "Julien would."
He doesn't respond so if my barb hit its target, I can't tell.
"Julien doesn't see what I see."
"What do you mean? See what?"
He shakes his head quickly, and I can see the internal struggle written on his face, his jaw tensing, his brow furrowed. Finally, he glances up at me, his eyes pained.
"Even telling you this much changes everything and I have to try to see my way through all over again. I wish I could tell you, Eve. You don't know how much. I just can't."
"Why? What do you mean, see your way through all over again?"
He bites his bottom lip as if to stop himself from speaking. He's completely unnerved by this conversation. What is he hiding? Why does he feel so afraid to tell me the truth?
He leans forward, his eyes downcast, and whispers as if he's afraid to say the words out loud.
"Every word, every act, every decision," he says, his voice shaking, "changes everything. I can see all ends and I'm trying so hard to find the one that protects you but even just saying that much changes it all once more. Soren and I – we're playing a game of chess, both of us assessing each other's moves. We can both see every possible outcome, every possible future." He says nothing for a moment as if overcome, struggling with his emotions, then he looks at me, his gaze moving over my face. "I wish you could just obey me, Eve. Just obey. It would be so much easier."
"I can't until you tell me why I have to."
He closes his eyes, raising his hands as if in surrender. "That is my dilemma. I must not tell you, I must not force you because if I do, it will lead to the end I fear the most. I must keep you in the dark and let you choose."
"You're not making any sense."
He shrugs, his eyes dreamy as if he's seeing something in the distance or in his mind's eye.
"It all keeps changing, shifting, the ground moving under my feet with each word and each action. I try to do the right thing, keep on the right course, but I am unable to control everything. I fail to control you." Then he glances back at my face. "I have to be so careful…"
"You sound insane." He does. What he's saying makes no sense. "Tell me, Michel! Tell me what's going on."
He shakes his head as if helpless.
I put my napkin over my plate and stand. If he's going to keep up this mystery man act, I can't go with him. Julien promised to tell me the truth, always. Why can't Michel?
"I'm going to my class. I guess I'll see you later at the final bout."
He nods without looking at me as if he's already off somewhere else, trying to see his way through it – whatever it is.
* * *
After another hour in class, we go to our sparring practice and Michel is there, waiting for me, short Wakizashi swords in hand. This time when we fight, he keeps just ahead of me, pushing me, challenging me, forcing me to always be on the defensive. And then he hurts me, by accident I'm certain, but he hurts me all the same. He slices my arm and the blood pours out of the deep cut, so much so that it scares me.
I crumple to the ground and try to stem the flow of blood. He grabs my arm and applies pressure to the wound, his brow furrowed.
"I'm so sorry," he says, holding the edges of the wound together with his fingers. Slowly, the edges knit together and the flow changes from a gush to a tiny ooze but I've already lost a lot of blood.
He carries me to my bedroom for I'm weak from blood loss.
"Don't let me die," I say, as darkness closes in on me.
"You won't," he says, biting his own wrist, holding it up to my mouth. "Drink."
I do, for I know it will heal me, replenish the blood I've lost. Soon, I feel strength return to my body and my vision, which had dimmed, clears so I see his beautiful face poised over mine, his eyes dark.
Soon, I'm able to sit up and I examine the thin line where the wound used to be.
"Soren healed me completely without making me drink his blood."
"He's more powerful than I am."
"What is he?" I say, touching his arm. "What does he want?"
"He wants to be a god," he says, and then helps me up. "A god of war reborn. He wants to claim the Roman Church for his own. Use it to rule over all."
"And you? What will you be to him? He wants you with him."
He nods. "He wants me as his High Priest. His Pope."
He raises his eyes to meet mine as if he's embarrassed to admit this to me. Finally! Michel tells me something I didn't already know.
"And are you?" I say, heat rising in my face at his admission. "Are you his High Priest? Will you be his pope?"
He exhales. "I will. He wants Julien as his warlord."
A chill goes through me, my body numb. "And me? What am I supposed to be?"
His jaw tenses for a moment as if he's grinding his teeth.
"His Medium."
I frown. A Medium? "Do you mean like a psychic Medium? Is this what you meant by me being a conduit?"
He nods. "You'd channel – focus the powers of those you join with, giving Soren more powers. Powers he could tap and use to do miracles. Feats of wonder to ensnare unwitting believers. But he's not a god. He's an abomination. He's a monster. What did Yeats write?" He pauses for a moment, as if remembering and then he recites the poem, his voice grave.
"Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."
"I know that poem," I say, remembering it from high school English. "How does it end? Something about a monster being born."
"What rough beast," he says, his voice a whisper, "its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"
"It was about the post-war years in Europe," I say in protest. "After the First World War."
"It's an allegory, using Biblical imagery. But what I'm talking about is Biblical, Eve."
"You mean like the Anti-Christ? You're saying Soren is the Antichrist? And you support this?"
"Not the Anti-Christ, no. But a monster none-the-less." He frowns at me, his blue eyes dark. "I don't support him. He's an abomination to me. I'll fight him. I have to find the right way to do so."
"By looking like you support him. But Michel, he's compelled you. How do you know he doesn't already know your plans to fight him?"
He shakes his head and turns his face away from me. Then he sighs heavily. He pulls me closer, his arms going around me. He leans in, his lips next to my ear.
"All I know is that he's trying to make sure I have no other choice but to comply with his wishes to save your life." He squeezes his arms around me so tightly that I can barely breathe. "Oh, God, Eve," he says. "I'm so tired of this. Trying not to say the wrong thing. Saying enough to convince you but not kill you. So tired…"
I pull away and he releases me, and there are tears in his blue eyes.
"Tell me!"
He cups my cheek, and strokes it with his thumb.
"I see it all," he says. "Every different future. Each decision, each word makes one future more likely to come true, and others less likely. Eve, if you could only just obey fully, I could save you but you have to fight me every second of the day…"
"Save my life? You mean I'll die if I don't obey you?"
He says nothing, just brushes a strand of hair from my cheek.
"There are things worse than death."
"Quit being so cryptic!" I hit him, pound his chest for I'm angry and scared. He sounds demented. "Tell me or leave."
"Don't you understand?" he says and grabs my shoulders, shaking me, his face filled with grief. "I sentence you to death by telling you. I can't tell you. I've already told you too much. If I do tell you, you will die. This is my test – the test of what future I will allow to come and what price I'll pay…"
I push him away and stand up. "You're deluded."
I back away from him, but he won't leave me alone. He rises from the bed and follows me until he has me cornered. He presses against me so that I'm trapped, one of his arms on the wall beside my head.
"If I tell you, you'll die. Even telling you this makes it more likely and I'll have to scramble to adjust, recalculate, re-plot my course, alter my plan. Eve, I have to watch every act, every word," he says and shakes his head. "Every breath."
"You can't tell the future!"
He shakes his head sadly. "I can. With each word," he says and strokes my cheek. "We change it. Every time we speak, every time we make a decision, the future is altered. Don't you see? There are so few good futures for us, Eve. So many bad ones. I see them all, I see them change each time I talk of this with you. Please, just stop asking me. Just obey me and let me save your life. I can't stand a universe without you beside me."
His expression of need for me touches my heart but I shake my head, unable to accept his words. He thinks he can see the future? It's impossible. It hasn't happened yet. He can't see it.
He can't.
He's deluded. This is what Julien was speaking about – Michel's obsession with controlling everything so he can affect the future.
"If you can see the future," I say, frowning, "then you knew you were going to cut my arm. You let it happen."
He sighs. "I saw myself cut you. I saw you bleeding, Eve. I saw you survive. I saw how that act cascaded forward into the future, altering it ever so slightly in my favor so I let it happen," he says and presses his finger against my lips. "Now please, go to sleep."
He leads me back to the bed and I lie down but sleep is long in coming, for I have his blood in me and his body is right there, pressed against mine.
I know he's aroused.
This could happen so easily. I can't let it.
I owe Julien that much.
Chapter 60
"My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you."
John Keats, Letters to Fanny Brawne
* * *
I wake with a start out of a bad dream in which I fall with someone’s sword in me, the blade piercing my heart, my hands around the sharp edges. I’m panting and Michel’s staring at me when I open my eyes, his brow furrowed, his expression dark.
“I saw myself being killed,” I say, barely able to speak.
“I know.” He doesn’t say anything more, but heaves a heavy sigh and cups my cheek. “You needn’t worry. I won’t let it happen.”
“That wasn't a vision of the future.” I sit up, my heart rate slowly returning to normal. “It was just a dream about my test today.”
“Eve,” he says, closing his eyes briefly. “You are so stubborn. You saw into my mind when you were waking."
I shake my head, refusing to believe something that's impossible. "I'm just anxious about the test."
"Don't worry," he says and strokes my cheek. "The tests will be a breeze for you. You have nothing to fear.”
He pulls me into an embrace and I’m distracted from the dream of my death. I haven’t decided yet. I won’t be able to make my decision until I see Julien and talk to him.
The thought chokes me up and I hug Michel tightly, despite my vow not to encourage him. He knows what I’m thinking through our connection and pulls me even closer against him.
We just lie there for a moment, wallowing in the sensations of sadness and his attempt to calm me doesn't stop my fear about my decision.
* * *
I get up and before I close the door to leave, I turn back and stare at him. He turns on his side to face me, and his face has this haunted look, his blue eyes huge. We say nothing. There's no need to speak.
Then, I go to the showers, a choke in my throat. When I'm done, he's gone. I go to the cafeteria before preparing for my tests.
The written tests are first thing this morning, and are short. Most of our testing will be through performance and fighting later this evening. We have several hours off in the afternoon to study for our fights and I wonder where Michel is. I return to my tiny room but he’s not there. I sit and go through my notes on various stances and moves and do some practice in the dojo, but he never shows up.
I wonder if Julien is already here and what he’ll do when he comes for me. My stomach is in knots just thinking of it.
I go back to the cafeteria and eat supper by myself, surrounded by almost two-dozen other students, all eating, deep in thought as we mentally prepare for our bouts tonight.
* * *
Finally, my trainer arrives and takes me out to the garden where floodlights have been set up and the other students are standing in five rows of four students. The sun has set and it's about nine o'clock at night. We start going through the routines, the instructor barking commands at the front of the field. With my two wooden Wakizashi swords in hand, I perform the moves, my braid tucked into my tunic and my feet bare in the cool grass.
Movement in my peripheral vision distracts me and I glanced to the right of the field where three priests in black vestments escort three tall men onto the field from a doorway. Dressed all in black and carrying black-visored helmets, the tall men have Wakizashi swords – real ones, similar to the wooden ones we used for practice.
Adepts with fight sight – it must be.
They march to the rear of the field and each one stands inside one of three rings marked out in chalk lines on the grass.
I glance back to the doorway when we switch to a series of side thrusts, and watch as a dozen observers in street clothes entered the field, speaking with the priests, but I don't see either Michel or Julien. The new arrivals walk up and down the rows of students. Two stop beside me, watching me go through the routine.
"How do you think they'll do?" a woman says.
"It's sink or swim," a man says, his voice smooth and foreign, sounding British. I see him out of the corner of my eye when I perform a side lunge.
A priest.
"This is their final test. They have to beat an experienced Adept in battle. This will separate the wheat from the chaff."
As I go through the routine, I wonder if I'll be wheat or
chaff. Julien promised to be here to watch and I glance around but don’t see him. I don’t see Michel either, but perhaps they don’t want to distract me. I can only imagine what’s passed between them if they’ve met up before the test.
The trainers start pulling students out of the formation, taking them back to the rings. I heard shouts, cries of pain, the collective 'oohs' and 'ahhs' from the observers, scattered applause, but I'm unable to turn around and watch. Finally, one of the trainers motions to me, taking his baton and placing it in front of me so that I have to stop.
"Your turn," he says and motions towards the back with his head. "Move it!"
I run to the rear of the field and what I see turns my blood to ice. The three Adepts fight students inside the circles, and as I wait, one pushes a girl out of the circle, wounding her with a slice to the arm. She’s unable to beat the Adept or fight to a draw, which is required to pass. Medics tend several of my fellow students who failed the test, gashes on their limbs.
I step up, watching as the Adept takes his place in the center of the ring once more. He wears a visored helmet so I can’t see his face. The guard shoves me from behind and I step into the circle, my heart racing and my wooden weapons at the ready. In a crouch position, I wait. The Adept bows to me but I don’t bow back. We fight for the required three minutes and the official raises a flag, signaling an end to the match. I’ve fought to a draw.
I've passed.
Standing at the edge of the field I see Julien. He’s dressed all in black with a long black leather trench and a blue scarf around his neck. Perhaps he didn’t want to distract me, but regardless, I run to him, ignoring the calls of the guards behind me. He’s smiling when I reach him, his arms open, his blue eyes wet. We kiss, the kiss deep and passionate and I feel a rush of love and some surprise from him, as if he didn’t believe I’d choose him. He must know Michel's been here.
“I knew you’d pass,” he says, his face in my neck. “They trained you well.”
We kiss again and he pulls me against him so tightly, I think he’ll break my back.