by Jen Printy
“So? She looked familiar. You know how that is. Leah Winters—she’s familiar to you, right?” Sarcasm soaks his defensive tone.
My jaw tightens. “I said stay away from her,” I hiss.
“Sure, sure. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He pauses. “I’m Artagan.”
I snort. “Artagan? What, like the guy from the tale of Olluna?”
“Oh, you’ve heard it? Yes, one of my more dramatic moments.” He smirks.
“You’re suggesting you’re the son of Death?” I eye him incredulously. He doesn’t seem like the heartbroken sort.
“An honorary title, but yes.” An amused smile extends across his face and serves only to anger me more.
“All right, enough with the bull—”
“Shhh. We have time. Lots of it, in fact.” He chuckles, reaching for his scotch, but he halts, his hands still hanging in the air. A sleek brunette ambles to the bar. Dressed in a vivid red, the woman rests against the counter next to me and orders a drink. She cocks her head to the side and smiles. Then she laughs at the bartender’s stupid joke.
Artagan leans around me, his eyes tracing every one of her curves before returning to her face. “You look stunning in crimson.”
His lack of respect is unnerving. I realize I’ll be lucky if I get a shred of information out of him, and my chest tightens. I’ve been scrounging for answers, and fate sent me this rude ass. I would laugh if I didn’t find everything about him so unbelievably frustrating.
“May I buy you a drink?” Artagan adds, still ogling the woman, but he isn’t looking at her eyes.
The bartender glares. “This one’s on the house,” he says, sliding a pink froufrou drink in front of her.
Artagan laughs. “Pink Lady. Interesting choice. I see you as more of a Dead Sexy or scotch fan.” He raises his glass and grins wickedly.
First, the woman scowls, but then her fire-engine red lips form a grin, and she gives Artagan a flirty little wink. She scribbles her number on a napkin and tucks the paper into the breast pocket of his blazer.
As she slinks to her table, Artagan leans away from the counter. His stool balanced on two legs while he enjoys the view. Nope, no heartbreak there. He’s still grinning when he brings his amber drink to his lips and is about to sip.
“Artagan, huh? The same son of a bitch who destroyed a whole village, including every child.” My timing is perfect and gets the reaction I was aiming for.
Artagan slams his glass onto the counter, and the ice cubes clink against the sides. His eyes snap to me, then he shoots me a long, hard stare. White-hot fire seethes under the surface. “They all deserved it.” He snarls. His resonant voice shows no sign of pity or remorse. “I thought you, above anyone else, would understand. What would you have done if it’d been your Lydia?”
My hand clenches involuntarily. If influenza had been a village of people, what wouldn’t I have done to avenge Lydia’s death? I inhale slowly, focusing. I can’t let him distract me, not when I’m so close to getting answers. “Lydia died a long time ago, but if you’re who you say you are, you know that.”
“True. In part,” he says.
I stare at him, unblinking. “Part?”
He smiles and gestures to an empty booth in the back corner. “May I suggest we move over there? It will allow us to talk more freely, away from prying ears.”
I nod and stand, grabbing my bottle.
Once we’re settled, I ask, “What do you mean ‘in part’?”
“Patience. You’ve waited over one hundred years. A minute isn’t going to kill you.”
“How do you know my age?”
Artagan puts a finger to his lips. Then he takes three long sips of his single-malt scotch, savoring each swallow.
My grip on my beer tightens with each second of silence. I’m wondering if the bottle or my self-restraint will break first.
“Ahhh, Macallan. The good stuff,” he says. “Let’s start at the beginning. I assume you know you’re immortal.”
“Yeah.”
“Any theories why?”
“I don’t have a soul?” I throw out my latest hypothesis with a shrug.
He bursts into laughter. “No, no, no, you’re nothing like them.”
“Then what? Am I a son of Death, too?” I ask, not amused.
“You might not be Death’s son, but you’re a relation. All immortals are. We don’t die because Death doesn’t claim his own. Welcome to the family, as dysfunctional as it is.” He raises his glass as if to toast.
“A relative of Death?” My words trip over the clutter in my mind. The whole time I’ve been chasing him, hating him, and Death’s part of me. “No!”
“Yes. The hereditary mutation shows up randomly through Death’s family line. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later. The genetic change is infrequent, but when it occurs, the results are either immortal or soul immortal. Immortals are rare. Both the mother and father have to carry the gene. Soul immortals only have to inherit their abnormality from one parent, usually the mother, but not always. Even then, there’s no rhyme or reason, none I can find, anyway. It’s a crap shoot, just like life.”
“Soul immortals?”
“Haven’t you ever wondered why Leah is so much like Lydia? I don’t mean physically. That’s a fluke. Although, I’ve seen her, and the resemblance is uncanny.”
“I know. I saw you talking to her at the movies.” The habitual icy thrill of anger creeps into place, and I ball my hands into fists. I have to hold myself together; I’m too close to the truth.
A suggestion of pride teases his lips and eyes. “Did you?”
I glare at him.
Artagan puts up his hand. “Calm yourself. No harm, no foul. Soul immortals are different from us. For one thing, there are lots more of them. Moreover, our bodies are bound to earth, but their souls are bound to earth. That means they’ll have a physical death, but at some point, their souls will return in a new body. Never the wiser. Lucky bastards. There will, of course, be differences from body to body, because of the new life experiences and all. But at the core, the essence of who they were will be the same.”
“You’re suggesting Leah and Lydia share the same soul?”
“Do you have a hearing impediment? I hate repeating myself.” He swallows the last of his scotch and then studies me before shaking his head. “You don’t believe you deserve any happiness, do you? Not deep down.”
“Where’d that come from?” I grumble. “Besides, you don’t know what I’ve done.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You worry about one life when I’ve killed a whole village.”
I frown, questioning him silently.
“You’re talking about Hake, right?”
“How do you know about him?”
Artagan rolls his eyes in annoyance and then points at his chest. “Son of Death, remember? Hake was a worthless street hood. Between the fighters he had killed and the prostitutes he beat beyond recognition, he had it coming. He died the way he chose to live. Brutally.”
“There were more than Hake.”
“More?” It’s Artagan’s turn to be confused.
I hold up three fingers.
“No. I’d know if that was truth.”
“Hake. My father. Lydia.” I fold each finger down as I say their names.
“You didn’t kill your father or Lydia. You couldn’t have saved them no matter what you did. It was their time.”
“My actions caused their deaths.”
“Yeah, asking the girl you love to marry you. What an arsehole you are.”
I glare at him, but my mouth stays shut.
Artagan snorts. “And your father?”
“He was on an errand for me.”
“So what? You were seven. You’re gripping the past so tight you can’t live. Or see how foolish you’re being.”
Death—or at the very least, his son—is giving me advice on living. I snort. “Thanks, Dr. Phil.”
“Seems you’re throwing yourself a pity p
arty. The bombing in Cairo last week and the train wreck in California two days from now, they’re your fault, too. Those two incidences alone will take a total of 243 lives.” He mutters something under his breath. “Done?”
I glower at him. “Are you serious? I can’t tell if you’re lying or just crazy.”
“Very serious. I am what I am, and I do what I have to.”
“How can you just accept killing like you have no choice?”
He stares at me as if he has more to say, but instead of speaking, he takes a long sip of his scotch. “Do you want to talk about my crimes, or do you want to know about Leah?”
I sigh, keeping the rest of my thoughts to myself.
“Thought so. As I was saying, Leah’s physical resemblance to Lydia is a twist of fate. Only the soul passes down the family line to the next descendent, a kind of inheritance. All except the eyes. They’re called the windows to the soul for a reason. They’ll always be the same.”
I had dismissed the similarities as wishful thinking or family traits. Blocks away from here is a room filled with scenes of Lydia’s past hanging on the walls. Those eyes aren’t a likeness. They’re the originals. “How do you know this?”
“The horse’s mouth. After six hundred years, Death and I have had some heated discussions.” He chuckles. “Leah’s soul immortal, so she’s kept the essence of who she once was, even though she doesn’t remember her past life.”
“But she does.”
“What?” His eyes snap to me.
“Leah remembers moments, snapshots from the past.”
“Not possible,” Artagan says flatly. “A soul immortal gets the sense of déjà vu, but little else.”
“Possible or not, she does remember those moments. She paints them.”
Artagan’s focus drifts. His thumb and forefinger stroke his stubbled chin. “Strange. So it truly has happened again,” he whispers, still thinking.
“Again?”
“It’s happened once before that I know of,” says Artagan. “An immortal named Kemisi fell in love with a soul immortal man named Amun. They married and lived out the remainder of the man’s natural life together. When his soul moved on to its next body, his memories of Kemisi were so strong that he searched her out. A complete abnormality. Unfortunately, war called, and the man died young. After the man’s second death, Kemisi hoped his memories would bring him to her again. She waited, but he never returned. After years of searching for him, desperation forced her to ask for my help. I found him for her. She went to visit him. He didn’t even recognize her—all his memories were lost. The man who houses that soul today lives in Duluth, Minnesota, with his wife and three children. Fate’s a fickle bitch and rarely grants happy endings, so enjoy the time you’re given.” He smiles, but joviality doesn’t touch his eyes.
After ordering another scotch, Artagan glances at his watch. “She was waiting for you, wasn’t she?”
“What time is it?” I fumble for my cell phone.
“Almost ten after nine.”
I jump to my feet. “I’m late. I have to go. She’ll think I’m not coming.”
A hint of jealousy flares in those sapphire eyes. “Enjoy your time, Jack. We’ll see each other again, I’m sure.”
I rush out into the night, thoughts swimming around my head in loops. I start to run. My heart accelerates into a steady thrum.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Leah stands alone outside the gallery, her arms wrapped around her slender frame as if she’s holding herself together. She tenses, and worry lines crease her forehead. Her eyes dash away every time they find me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say.
She gives me a quick nod and glance before looking away again. I catch a glimpse of her teeth biting into her lower lip before a thick curtain of golden hair slides between us, hiding her face from my view.
“We need to talk,” she says, her voice cracking on the last word.
“Yes, we do.” I smile, but I doubt she can see my expression through her shield of wavy strands.
“We should go to my place so we can have some privacy.”
Puzzled by Leah’s unexpected behavior, I’m slow to respond. I want to brush her hair from her eyes, scoop her into my arms, and tell her everything, but that would be the wrong move right now. Her reaction to my revelation could take so many forms. “That would be best,” I say.
Leah swallows hard. She peers out from behind the curtain, studying me apprehensively. The lingering color drains from her face. Her reaction propels my feet forward, but she shies away, hiding behind her hair again. Then, almost in a trance, she turns and walks in the direction of her dorm.
I follow then quicken my pace to walk alongside her.
A block from her dormitory, Leah finally speaks again. “Grady said you wouldn’t come back. I convinced him to leave, telling him I needed some time to myself. This isn’t a conversation I wanted him to be part of in case you did.”
“Understandable.” I give her a sideward glance. “But I said I would.”
“Too much of a gentleman to leave a girl waiting.” She sniffs.
Is she crying? “Leah?”
I reach out and place my hand on the small of her back. She shrugs away. “Please, don’t.”
I restrain my hands at my sides.
“When you leave…” She sighs. “I don’t want this to be any harder than it already is.”
Pieces fall into place. A sense of relief rushes over me. The knots in my shoulders uncoil, taking the tension throughout my body with them. She thinks I’m here to say good-bye.
“Leah, I’m not—”
“Please, not here.”
Against instinct, I obey.
Leah’s small room is packed with two single beds and matching dressers pressed against opposite walls. The stark-white wall boasts a patchwork of brightly colored reproductions of Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Chagall. A square bedside table sits under the tall window, which offers a full view of the street. In the farthest corner is a bookcase made of four cinderblocks and two boards. Most of the books are Victorian or earlier with a few modern classics tossed in. Once the door is closed securely behind us, I can’t wait any longer. I step to her, winding my arms around her waist. At first, she attempts to yank away. I clasp her tightly with one hand, while the other catches her chin. I hold her face firmly until her gaze turns to me.
“I…” How to start? I stare into her confused eyes. I’ve waited so long, but I would wait an eternity for this moment. For her. It’s worth every second of pain and heartache. No words I choose would ever be sufficient. Maybe you’re in a dream, a beautiful, but cruel hoax, Doubt murmurs from my depths. I close my eyes, half expecting her to be gone when I reopen them. But she’s still here. I smile.
Leah studies me, her chest heaving. Finally, she whispers, “You’re not upset? You don’t think I’m crazy, too?”
I chuckle when I hear my fears coming from her lips. “Of course I don’t. You’re the sanest of us all.”
A hint of surprise spreads across her face, washing away her demeanor of nervous regret. “Are you sure?”
I pull her body to mine and press my mouth against hers. She pauses for a second before she wraps her arms around me. We kiss with our eyes open. Warmth explodes within me and crashes over me, awaking my spirit from a dark and cold slumber. Our lips dance together in a familiar way with growing intensity. I kiss along her arched neck, drawing in the scent of her sweet skin. She lets out a breathy moan.
“I’ve missed you,” I whisper, brushing her velvety skin with my lips. Hauling in a deep breath, I pull away before I’m completely undone, and respectability flies out the window.
She leans her cheek against my chest. “Well, that was unexpected. I thought you were here to dump me.”
I laugh and kiss the top of her head. Her hair smells like springtime and apples—a difference from her predecessor.
“No. I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper. “By the way, I do remember. I remem
ber every moment.”
She draws away so she can see my face. “Every moment?”
I nod.
“Then you’ve dreamt about us more than I have. I just have pieces—a collage of a life together.”
I take a sobering breath to prepare for what needs to come next. “Because I lived it. Every beautiful, painful moment of it.”
Leah asks nothing, but her eyes question each word I’ve said.
My stomach twists. “I am a little over one hundred and seventy years old. I was born on January second, 1841, in Lidcombe, England. My body hasn’t aged beyond twenty, and I can’t die.”
She picks at her fingernails. Then swallowing hard, she shuts her eyes. The vise around my stomach squeezes.
“From what I know, I was born this way.” I grin wryly, taking her hand and entwining my fingers with hers.
Leah’s eyes open, flitting to the floor. “Then you and I are different.”
“Yes.”
She shifts away and crosses her arms. “What does that make me?”
“Maybe you should sit down first.”
“I’m fine. What am I?” Her chin raises a fraction of an inch. Her eyes meet mine. Her determination betrays nothing.
“I think it would be best if you sit.”
“Tell me!”
“Well, you’re stubborn like her.” I huff. “You’re a soul immortal.”
“What’s that?” she rasps.
I explain everything to the best of my ability. I consider leaving out our connection to Death, but then I decide Leah has the right to know everything. However, when talking about her dreams, I choose to not to use Artagan’s words—strange and abnormal. She thinks of herself as a freak already, and I know how that feels. I’m not going to corroborate the notion, because she’s not. She’s beautiful just the way she is.
Her legs wobble and struggle to hold up her slight frame. I fear she might faint, so I wrap my arm around her waist for support.
“I’m okay. Just give me a minute.” She brings a shaky hand to her mouth then walks to the bed and sits down.
“Are you sure?”
Leah nods. “I always knew I was different.” Her voice trails off, and she stares at the floor.