Resurrection

by Sara Reinke

  Paul blinked at him, saying nothing. Jay didn’t know if he’d remembered anything up until that point, but he knew by the way Paul looked at him, the way his expression softened with sorrow, that he clearly recalled now. After a moment, the sorrow faded, and his brows crimped again. “No, thanks,” he said, and he swung the door shut.

  “Paul,” Jay said, opening the cabinet. He planted his hand firmly against the door so that Paul couldn’t close it again. “Come back with me.”

  “I said no, Jay,” Paul replied. “Go away and leave me alone. I’m happy here.”

  “Don’t you want to see Vicki again?” Jay asked, and at this, Paul visibly softened again. “Or M.K.? Bethany? They need you.” His voice grew strained with fresh tears. “I need you, Paul. Please.”

  “I don’t want to end up like Danny Thomas or Eileen O’Connell,” Paul said quietly, his voice tremulous, his eyes growing round and frightened. “I don’t want to be like that, Jay.”

  “I won’t let that happen, Paul,” Jay said, leaning toward him. “I swear to you I won’t. It’s my power, and I can control it.”

  “No, you can’t,” Paul said.

  “I can,” Jay insisted. “I wouldn’t let it make me raise Charles Toomis from the dead, and I won’t let it keep me from bringing you all of the way back. I promise, Paul. I swear to you.”

  Paul looked unconvinced, and Jay didn’t blame him. Hell, I’m not convinced, he thought, but he furrowed his brows and steeled himself against his fears. He held out his hand and met his brother’s gaze. “Please, Paul,” he said. “I can do this. I know I can. Take my hand. Come back with me.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Jay stood in front of the mirror in Jo’s bedroom, slowly adjusting his tie. His black wool suit coat lay on the bed, spread neatly to keep it from wrinkling. It was hard for him to get the tie’s knot situated and straight. His hands kept wanting to tremble; his eyes kept clouding with tears.

  Finally, he gave up and sat on the edge of the bed. He covered his face with his hands and wept, his shoulders shaking. He didn’t hear Jo come into the room, her stocking feet slipping silently against the floor. She wore a modest black dress and matching hose, but hadn’t put on her low-heeled black pumps. She knelt beside him, touching his shoulders and he looked up at her, trembling and miserable.

  “Jay, I’m sorry,” she breathed, pressing her hand against the back of his head and drawing him against her shoulder. She kissed his ear as he wept, and stroked his hair, murmuring soft, comforting sounds.

  “Daddy, I found this in one of our boxes,” Emma said, coming into the room. She didn’t have anything black to wear, but Jo had found a pretty red velvet dress, and helped her braid her long, dark hair into twin plaits adorned with bows to match. She held out a photo, and Jay smiled, wiping his tears with the back of his hand and trying to compose himself.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s from my birthday last year,” Emma said. “My party―see? I thought we could put it down inside the coffin.”

  Jay looked at the photo for a long, fond moment, at the image of his brother, Paul, holding Emma in his lap. Both of them wore party hats and laughed while Marie kissed Emma’s cheek, offering her a birthday cake with four candles ablaze. It brought back such poignant, bittersweet memories that he had to tear his gaze away before he teared up again.

  “Do you think Marie would like it, Daddy?” Emma asked.

  Jay brushed the cuff of his hand against her cheek and smiled. “I think she’d like it very much, Emma.”

  * * *

  Marie had died eleven days after Charles Toomis ― the Watcher ― was killed. In the years following her husband’s death, Marie had meticulously planned her estate, including a living will that provided strict instructions should she ever become mentally or physically incapacitated. She had wanted no resuscitation; no means of mechanized life support. She had loved her husband and known no fear of death. She hadn’t wanted to prolong her natural life any more than was necessary. Jay knew this ― it was why resurrecting her had pained him so terribly. In accordance with her wishes, Marie’s life support was discontinued. She lingered less than seventy-two hours before passing once again. This time, Jay had taken no chances. He stayed at home, putting as much distance between himself and Marie as possible. It hurt him beyond measure, but it had been the least he could do for her.

  After the funeral, the family and mourners gathered at Jo’s house. Jay couldn’t return to the brownstone; it would never feel safe or like home again. He hired movers to pack up their belongings, and he and Emma moved in with Jo. The arrangement hadn’t bothered Emma in the least; in fact, at the sight of Jo’s fenced-in backyard, Emma’s thoughts and conversations immediately and eagerly turned toward getting a puppy.

  While people gathered in the living and dining rooms for food and cocktails, Emma watched her Uncle Paul walk outside on his own, slipping out of the kitchen door and onto the wooden deck beyond. She followed him, curious.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He had just lit a cigarette and stood by the deck railing, a freshly opened bottle of beer sitting on the ground beside him. “Well, hey, kiddo,” he said, smiling in the forced way he had sometimes, as if he didn’t want her to know the truth; that he was hurting inside. “I just…I thought I’d get some fresh air.”

  “With that?” Emma asked, wrinkling her nose at the cigarette.

  Paul glanced at it for a moment and then laughed. “Yeah, I guess that sort of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

  “Why are you smoking again?” Emma asked, walking over to stand beside him. She thought cigarettes were stinky. Uncle Paul had quit more than a year ago, and she thought he’d smelled much better ever since. “They make your clothes smell awful, Uncle Paul,” she told him pointedly. “Your breath, too. And Marie told me once they give people cancer.”

  She’d dropped her voice and whispered the word cancer just the way Marie had used to, as if cancer was something contagious just from the mere mention. Paul smiled at her, amused and charmed.

  “I’ll quit again,” he said.

  “When?” Emma asked.

  “Soon,” he promised, and when she didn’t avert her stern, disapproving gaze, he laughed. “Jesus, tomorrow, then. Okay? I’ll quit tomorrow.”

  Emma smiled at him. “Okay.”

  Paul draped his arm across her shoulders and pulled her close in a brief but fond embrace. “It’s cold out here, kiddo,” he said. “You should be inside where it’s warm.”

  “I’m okay,” she said, but then her teeth started to clatter together and she shivered. Paul didn’t miss this, and he shrugged his way out of his suit coat, leaning down and holding the cigarette clamped between his teeth while he put the coat around her.

  “Here,” he said. “At least you won’t freeze to death.”

  She had always adored her Uncle Paul. He was a police officer―a hero. She’d always believed that, even before the Watcher, and before everyone else had started to think so, too. She’d never understood why Uncle Paul thought so badly of himself. He would never admit that he did, of course, but she knew he felt that way. She could see it in his face. And her grandmother had told her.

  She slipped her hand against Paul’s, twining her fingers through his. She knew this was only the start of things to come for him. Her grandmother had told her that, too. He’s going to need you, Emma, Grandma had said. He doesn’t realize it yet, but he will. He’ll need us both ― and soon.

  “Aren’t you cold, Uncle Paul?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “No, I’m tough,” he replied, smiling down at her in a sad sort of way that let her know he meant in more ways than just fighting off the cold air.

  Emma smiled back at him, her grandma’s voice echoing softly in her mind. He’ll need us both ― and soon.

  “I know you are, Uncle Paul,” she said. “You’re the toughest man I know.”

  * * *

  Jay found Paul outsid
e sometime later, a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other as he watched the sky darken with dusk.

  “You know, I didn’t raise your ass from the dead just so you could kill yourself smoking,” Jay remarked.

  Paul glanced at him, the corner of his mouth lifting wryly. “It’s either this or divorce,” he said, waggling the cigarette demonstratively. He drew it to his mouth and took a long, deep drag. “And right now, this is cheaper.”

  Things with Vicki had almost been good again, at least for the first twelve hours after the shooting. She hadn’t asked for the truth about what had happened, about Jay resurrecting Paul, and Paul hadn’t offered it to her. She pretended to believe that he’d been wearing a bullet-proof vest, and nothing more had been said about it between them. They had enjoyed some heated lovemaking in the first day following the shooting, the sort of reckless, passionate sex they hadn’t shared in at least a decade. But then, reality settled in, and with it had come a whole new set of baggage to weigh them down. Toomis hadn’t raped Vicki, but he had terrorized her deeply during the hours he’d held her captive. She’d watched him shoot her husband right in front of her ― and no matter what Paul or Jay said, she knew she’d seen Paul die. It would probably take years of therapy ― if even then ― before she would be able to sleep a night through without waking up soaked in sweat and crying out in terror.

  Paul had become a hero and overnight media celebrity for having killed the Watcher. There was talk of the mayor giving him a formal commendation, and rumors of a promotion to lieutenant flying around the Metro police force. He’d appeared in countless local newscasts, as well as on the Today show and Good Morning, America in live satellite interviews. There had been a brief mention in Time magazine, and his picture had graced the front page of USA Today. Representatives for Oprah Winfrey had called just that morning, wanting to book him for an upcoming show, while Diane Sawyer and a camera crew from Primetime Live wanted to come next week and shoot a profile of his story.

  All of that had meant little time at home to comfort his wife and family, and it seemed inevitable that the spotlight would continue to shine upon him. Paul knew it. Vicki knew it, too. Neither one of them had mentioned divorce specifically yet, but it was probably certain. They had taken separate cars to the funeral that day. Paul’s change of clothes were hanging on a hook in his new office, not in his closet at home.

  “I’m sorry, Paul,” Jay said.

  Paul shrugged dismissively, tilting his head back and draining his bottle of beer in a single swallow. He uttered a low, moist belch, and flicked his cigarette out into the darkness. “I just sent your daughter inside a little while ago,” he said, turning to Jay. “I gave her my coat, but she was about to turn blue anyway.”

  Jay managed a clumsy laugh. “I’ll find her before you go and get your coat back for you.”

  Paul shrugged again and looked out across the yard. “It was a nice service,” he said at length.

  “Yes.” Jay nodded. “Yes, it was.”

  “Marie loved you and Emma like family, you know.”

  Jay nodded again. “I know.”

  Paul sighed. “She was a good woman. A damn good woman. And she’s in a better place now.”

  Jay smiled sadly. “I know. I’ve seen it.”

  Paul glanced at him. “How are you doing?”

  “Alright,” Jay said, and it wasn’t a complete lie. He’d languished, nearly comatose, for four days following Paul’s resurrection. At one point, his vital signs had dropped to such low levels that his doctors had assumed death would be eminent. He’d survived, but his body and mind continued to pay the toll for his exertion. Even now, he felt easily exhausted; even the most mundane of activities left him weary and winded.

  Paul hooked his arm around Jay’s neck and drew him near, kissing his forehead. “I love you, Jay,” he whispered.

  Jay hugged him, clapping his hand against Paul’s back. “I love you, too, Paul,” he breathed.

  The back door opened suddenly, startling them, and Paul’s daughter, Bethany came out onto the deck. “Daddy,” she said. “M.K. took one of your cigarettes out of the pack in your coat pocket, and she’s going to go smoke it on the front porch with Marie’s nephew.”

  “Where’s your mother?” Paul asked.

  “In the bathroom,” Bethany replied. “Daddy, he’s seventeen. I just saw him put his hand on her butt.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Paul muttered, rolling his eyes. He followed his daughter back toward the door, pausing long enough to glance over his shoulder at his brother. “Thanks for bringing me back, Jay,” he said dryly, making Jay laugh. “Can’t tell you how much I would have missed moments like this.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, long after everyone else had gone home, and Emma had been snuggled into bed for the night, Jo and Jay lay side by side in her bed, spooned together after making love.

  She rested with her back to him, and he lay against her, stroking his hand against her shoulder. She tried to feel warm and safe with him there. When he slept beside her; it sometimes kept the nightmares awaydreams in which she felt Charles’ hand close against her arm, or the gun shoved against her head as his finger curled around the trigger.

  Sometimes she wondered if she would ever trust anyone again. She’d thought the greatest, deepest betrayal she’d ever know had come from her ex-husband, Rich, when she’d learned the truth about his drug addiction, and when he’d first begun to beat her. She’d thought that would surely be the worst of things to come for her, but then Charles had eclipsed that in horrifying, brutal measure. She was afraid to trust again, to find any sense of security or comfort. Who knew when someone else would come along and destroy it in an even crueler fashion?

  “Marry me, Jo,” Jay murmured, his lips lighting against the slope of her shoulder.

  She closed her eyes against the sting of tears. She loved Jay. She wanted him and Emma to be a part of her life, her world. She had opened her heart and home gratefully and gladly to them both, and she didn’t regret it for a moment. But still, there was that portion of her that remained fearful of growing too close to him, of trusting him ― or anybody else ― that much again.

  He laughed softly, propping himself up on his elbow so he could nuzzle her ear. “This is the part where you say, ‘Okay, Jay, of course I’ll marry you.’”

  She rolled over and met his gaze. Darkness still terrified her ― and Emma, too. They left lights burning all over the house, day and night, and the soft, warm glow from the nearby dining room crept through the bedroom doorway and glistened in Jay’s eyes. He smiled and her heart softened, that frightened, anxious place inside of her finding sudden, unexpected ease. She remembered when he had come to her doorstep in the driving rain, his eyes filled with earnest remorse. Then, as now, he couldn’t disguise the honesty of his emotions, the sincerity of his feelings for her, and then, as now, she found herself believing him, believing in him.

  “Okay, Jay,” she whispered, touching his face, making his smile widen. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

  He leaned over and kissed her, his lips settling against hers, the tip of his tongue delving lightly, gently into her mouth. He rolled toward her, settling against her, and she could feel him hardening against her thigh. “I love you, Jo,” he breathed.

  “I love you, too,” she said, and dropped him a wink. “’Til death do us part, right?”

  He laughed, kissing her again as she wrapped her legs about his middle, drawing him into her and making her moan softly with pleasure. “Not if I can help it.”

  # # #

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “Definitely an author to watch.” That's how Romantic Times Book Reviews magazine describes Sara Reinke. New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards calls Reinke “a new paranormal star” and Love Romances and More hails her as “a fresh new voice to a genre that has grown stale.” Dark Thirst and Dark Hunger, the first two books in her Brethren Series of vampire romance are available from Kens
ington/Zebra Books, while the third installment, Dark Passion, is available from Double Dragon Publishing. Find out more about Reinke by visiting online: http://www. sarareinke. com

  Table of Contents

  Resurrection