Demons

by Heather Frost

  While I drove I called Toni, who informed me that Patrick had been sleeping all day, and he had yet to wake up. I didn't change my direction, though.

  “How's he doing?” I asked at last, afraid of what I might hear.

  Toni blew out his breath, knowing that I wasn't just asking for a routine checkup. “Honestly? Not so good. Worse than he lets on, I'm sure. His nose hasn't started bleeding yet, so… we're still good for now.” He hesitated and then continued, knowing that I'd want to know every detail. “Terence called while you guys were at the recital. I didn't tell Patrick, but… One of the Guardians they've been monitoring passed away last night. They don't expect one of the others to last the day.”

  Though I'd never met them, a piece of me mourned the poor Guardians. Hearing about these deaths only made Patrick's fate seem that much more real, and unavoidable. He really was going to die.

  “Thanks for telling me,” I whispered.

  “Jack called this morning. He wants to come over, but… we don't know if he's susceptible or not. I told him to keep his distance for now.”

  “That's probably for the best.” My voice was hollow.

  “Yeah, that's what I thought.” Toni decided to change the subject. “So… how was school?”

  “Long.” I sighed.

  “How's Lee?”

  “Learning the truth about everything hasn't stopped Rainbow Days, so I think she's okay.”

  He chuckled. “Wow, she's a really awesome chica.”

  I swallowed hard. “I'll be there in about five minutes, Toni.”

  “Sweet. I'll be right here.”

  We said good-bye, and I hung up. I took a few bracing breaths, focusing on my pounding heart. I needed to slow it down, keep it steady…

  I expected Patrick to still be asleep when I got there, but when I walked into the living room he was sitting on the couch. The laptop was on the table, but it was obvious he wasn't really watching the beginning of Peter Pan.

  He smiled up at me, his brown hair a messy pile on his head, hanging down around his ears and curling over his face.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked, moving straight for him. He didn't stand up to meet me, so I knew that he was doing worse.

  “I'm feeling good,” he lied. “Refreshed.”

  My lips tugged into a thin smile. “Good. I'm glad.” I sat on the edge of the couch and embraced him, holding him more tightly when I realized his weak arms couldn't squeeze any more than they already were.

  When I pulled away, he settled back against the couch and his eyes searched my face. “How was school?”

  “The gang missed you. Especially Trent.”

  “I miss them. You told them hi for me?”

  “Yeah. I did.”

  He nodded and glanced at the movie that was still quietly playing. “I've watched bits and pieces of this off and on all night and morning. I'd wake up sometimes, and I couldn't fall back asleep.”

  “I should bring over some other movies for you.”

  He shrugged. “I like this one. It reminds me of you.”

  I bit my lower lip and turned my eyes away from him. What was he trying to do? Make me lose it?

  I saw a book lying on the coffee table, next to the computer. It was old, and the leather cover was shallowly cracked in places.

  “What's that?” I asked, grateful for the subject change.

  He followed my gaze, then laboriously stretched to reach it. “It was my sketchbook. It was far too expensive, but my parents were supportive of my talents.”

  “Oh my gosh. Why didn't you tell me you had this?”

  He balanced the book on his flat palms, and he stared at the leather as if transfixed. “I hardly ever take it out myself. It holds too many memories for me. But it was a piece of myself I couldn't resist taking with me. I've never shown this to anyone else, for all these years…” he looked to me. “There was something I wanted to show you.”

  “Of course.” I curled my legs up onto the couch, angling myself toward him. The movie continued to play, but it was a detached background accompaniment. While Patrick settled more comfortably beside me, I took a fast look around the large living space. “Where's Toni?”

  “In his room. I think it's his way of giving us some privacy…”

  “Huh. That's considerate of him.”

  “It makes me worry about what he wants from us,” he joked lightly.

  I might have made some quirky answer, but Patrick had just lifted the cover, and I was staring at a familiar face. “You?” I asked quickly, staring at the piercing eyes.

  Patrick shook his head. “My brother. Sean.”

  “He looks so much like you…”

  “He was always the better-looking one. This sketch doesn't do him justice.”

  “You have the same eyes.”

  Patrick swallowed hard and turned the page. Whatever he wanted to show me, it was further in the book.

  Through the somewhat faded lines of his art, I met his parents and saw his old home in Ireland. Every line was beautiful. Not because he was a talented artist—because even though sketching was not his forte, he was indeed talented—but because he had tried to capture his family with such love. It was one of the most touching things I'd ever seen, and I was almost overwhelmed by the fact that he wanted me to view these very personal thoughts and memories.

  The only drawing that made me a bit wary was of a beautiful young woman. She had flowing hair that curled naturally over her shoulders, and her perfectly sculpted face was stunning. I couldn't imagine how she must have looked in real life. Breathtaking was probably too inadequate a word. In addition to that, her lips twisted flirtatiously, not that I couldn't blame her for looking that way at the artist. Patrick was impossible to ignore. It made total sense that he'd had the affection of a beautiful girl. I wondered what had happened to her, if her eyes had remained that bright after his death.

  What would I look like after losing him?

  Though I was a little jealous of this attractive Irish woman, I found myself drawn to her. Because she'd gone through exactly what I was about to go through: losing Patrick.

  To appease my more jealous thoughts, I assured myself that there was no way she could have loved him as much as I did.

  “Sarah McKenna,” Patrick explained quietly. “We were good friends growing up, and she was a wonderful young woman. She was the first girl I believed myself to be in love with. My mother tried desperately to throw us together at every opportunity. I would have probably married her someday, but…”

  “But then you died,” I whispered.

  He glanced my way. “No. I met you. And I realized that love is a lot stronger than I'd ever imagined.”

  How was it possible for my heart to be so warm and yet so cold at the same time?

  He began to leaf more quickly through the pages, and we were nearly to the middle when he turned the stiff page that revealed an unexpected face.

  My face.

  Because though the rendition wasn't perfect, it was uncannily close.

  “But… how…?” My voice drifted, and my eyes were glued to the page.

  Patrick was shaking his head slackly. “I don't know. I wish I did. But… Kate, I never could draw anything unless I'd seen it. And this drawing… all I can remember is that I saw your face in my dreams. But I must have seen you. Two hundred years ago, I dreamed about you. Perhaps even more baffling is the fact that my brother, Sean… I remember him looking at this, and he knew that he'd seen you too. I don't know how it's possible, but… There you are.”

  I stared at the curved lines of my face, staring up at me from the yellowed page. The shading that his practiced fingers had placed around my eyes, the way he had graciously sculpted my lips to look beautiful… and that's when I suddenly knew. That's when I understood.

  Terence had told me that I had the ability to travel through emotions. That they acted as doorways to different memories, different times. But after learning that I could do nothing for Patrick, do no
thing in my own time… well, what was the point in continually thinking about it? I'd been so preoccupied with other alternatives for saving Patrick, the whole idea of time travel had sort of slipped my mind.

  But this picture was evidence; it was the only explanation I needed. At some point, I was going to go back. I was going to travel through Patrick's emotions, and I was going to journey to the past. What other answer was there?

  But if I did go back… why didn't I talk to him? Why didn't I imprint myself on his memory? Why was I only a dream to him? Just a picture in an old sketchbook? Why would I journey to his past and not approach him?

  It made no sense.

  Patrick's eyes were on my face. He was waiting for me to say something. I'd promised Terence that I wouldn't tell anyone. But if I didn't tell him… his time was running out. If I was going to travel back in time, it would have to be soon. Sometime this week, I would be in the 1700s.

  It was ludicrous.

  It was the only thing that made sense.

  Was this picture proof that I broke my promise to Terence? Did I tell Patrick about my special Seer abilities? How else would he help guide me into his memories?

  “Kate? Is something wrong?”

  My thoughts were so focused, so intense, that I barely registered the sound of his voice.

  Terence had been clear—I couldn't change anything in my own lifetime. But I could go back to before Patrick died—before he ever joined the United Irishmen. What if I saved him from ever making the choice? Then he would never get sick… because he'd never be here. I'd never meet him.

  And if I never met him—if he was never here… How could I see the sketch that made me go back in the first place?

  Something wasn't adding up. Was there another reason the sketch was important?

  One question bothered me more than all the others. If I didn't go back in time to see Patrick, why in the world would I ever go back at all?

  “Kate?”

  I tore my eyes off the drawing, glancing up at his mildly worried expression. “I'm fine. It's just… weird.”

  He nodded once, relaxing a little when he realized I wasn't going into shock or anything. “I know. But I thought you should see it. Whatever it means…” His eyes suddenly squinted, focusing on a point near my left eyebrow.

  “What?” I asked self-consciously.

  His eyes darted back to the page, still narrowed. I looked at my image, tried to see what he was seeing…

  I felt his eyes back on my face. “It's a pimple,” he whispered.

  I blushed a little, and my finger reached up for my eyebrow. Sure enough, near the bridge of my nose, I felt the small bump. It was in the early stages, hardly developed yet at all. “Yeah, it happens when I'm stressed. I break out…”

  He shook his head. “No. It's a pimple.” He pointed to the picture—a small spot near my eyebrow I hadn't noticed before, because it seemed to blend right in.

  I felt my face twist in bewilderment. “You drew my pimple?… No one does that sort of detail. It borders on the compulsive—”

  “Kate,” he interrupted, his voice almost urgent. “This picture… It captured you now.” He glanced back at my real eyebrow. I could tell from the way his face was knit up that he was trying to remember the dream that had inspired the drawing. He was trying to remember exactly what I'd looked like…

  “It was bigger then,” he finally decided. “I wouldn't have noticed it otherwise. But not much bigger. A day? Maybe two?… Kate, what's going on?”

  I was completely baffled. But if my pimple still had a couple days to grow, it must mean that Patrick had to still be alive for those days. It was amazing how much relief I felt at that realization.

  He was still waiting for me to speak, watching me closely, reading every emotion to cross my face. “Patrick, I…”

  He saw my hesitation, and his forehead wrinkled in something like confusion. “If you know something about this, I need you to tell me. I'd nearly convinced myself that I had to have seen a look-alike—your twin in absolutely every way. But this, the pimple… there's no way this was a coincidence. That's you, Kate. How is this possible?”

  I knew I couldn't keep this from him. He knew that I knew something—he'd seen the realization, then the relief…

  He wasn't breathing.

  I reached out and gripped his fingers tightly, our hands balanced on the picture. “Patrick, I'll tell you everything I know. But first I need you to breathe.”

  His hand was cold, his fingers stiff. That's when I realized his expression had changed. He wasn't looking into my eyes, searching for answers. He was staring past me, something like dread tightening his skin.

  He wordlessly pulled his hand from mine to close the sketchbook, and he tossed it onto the table—and suddenly he was falling, doubling over as he crashed against the table.

  The laptop shuddered at the impact, and I thought the table would snap under his sudden weight. But before any damage could be done he was rolling off, crumpling to the floor.

  “Patrick!” I screamed, a second before a horrible cry ripped out of his body and tore through his throat.

  It sounded like he was being burned alive.

  I pushed off the couch, kneeling beside him in the thin space. He continued to scream in agony as I groped along his thrashing body, trying to reach his contorted face.

  I heard a door open, and we weren't alone anymore. Toni crouched beside Patrick, struggling to hold his jerking head still in an effort to keep him from damaging his straining neck.

  “Toni!” I gasped, unable to tear my eyes away from Patrick's indescribable pain. “What's happening?”

  In answer Toni swore darkly, his eyes blazing with many different heartrending emotions as he saw his friend writhe on the floor. “It's killing him!” he shouted at last.

  “What do we do?” I cried, tears practically pouring down my face. I grabbed Patrick's hand, where his taut fingers were curled into claws. I couldn't stop shaking. My stomach felt completely turned inside out, and I could barely breathe.

  “Nothing,” Toni growled. “There's nothing we can do…”

  While Patrick was tortured, I clung to his hand. I tried to hold him, but he just ended up jerking away. As if somehow—even in the depths of this horrible inferno—he knew that he didn't want me to witness this. Toni protected his head, keeping it firmly in place. His shrieks rent my soul and made me feel as if there would be nothing worse than this pain of watching him slowly die.

  But he wasn't dying. Toni's vicious undercurrent of mutterings assured me of that. Even as the virus tried so hard to annihilate him, Patrick's tormented body worked feverishly to repair the damage, tried to heal despite the fatal wounding.

  Most of Toni's words were in Spanish, and I didn't know enough to follow the fervently uttered words. A prayer? Probably not, I realized, as a heated expletive I understood perfectly punctuated his breathless monologue.

  I wanted to swear with him, but I didn't have the breath.

  Patrick's hand crushed my fingers. It was the wrist that had been strained by Micah's pull, so long ago at Jaxon's party. Before I'd known that he was dying…

  Had there ever been a time I hadn't felt this terrible burning in my chest? It seemed like so long… When would it stop?

  His cries choked off slowly—and then he was simply gasping. His eyes stopped rolling, his arching back pressed limply to the floor. His panting was short, sharp, and shallow. He was covered in sweat, and I could feel his whole body trembling in the wake of that awful onslaught. His tensed muscles spasmed, and slowly his eyes drifted down to me, where I sat at his side—the coffee table pressed painfully into my back.

  He stared at me and slowly uncurled his fingers, taking the intense pressure away from my throbbing hand. “I'm sorry,” his voice cracked.

  “Why didn't Terence mention this?” I asked hollowly, still clutching his sagging fingers. “Why didn't you tell me this was happening?”

  “I didn't want you… to w
orry…”

  I looked to Toni. “How long has this been happening?”

  Patrick groaned. “Toni…”

  He ignored Patrick's pleading, his eyes on me. “The first time happened soon after Terence left. It was happening about once a day, but it's becoming more frequent. This is the third time since the recital.”

  My gaze fell to Patrick's face, but he was squeezing his eyes closed, trying to force away all the pain. As if he could simply will all of this to stop happening. I swallowed hard, barely believing that he could have survived this torture so many times… even an immortal could only endure so much.

  Patrick's blue eyes opened, and he focused on me. “This doesn't matter,” he whispered finally, his voice wavering as his body fought to recover. “The drawing. Show Toni the pimple.”

  Toni's eyebrows drew together. “The pimple? Have you lost your mind?”

  Patrick chuckled partially. “Maybe.” He swallowed. “Kate. Please.”

  I didn't release his hand, but I twisted around and snatched up the book. I handed it over to Toni, who took it and flipped open almost immediately to the right page. So he'd already seen it before.

  I watched Patrick's drawn face as he hurried to explain everything to Toni. The pimple, what it meant as far as a timeline went, and then they turned to look at me—both waiting for an explanation.

  I was definitely too tired to fight them.

  “I know how I got there,” I whispered slowly. “I just don't know why.”

  Toni shook his head, not understanding the distinction between my words. “You know how you got into Patrick's dreams, but you don't know why you were there? Aren't they the same thing?”

  “No. Not exactly.” I took a deep breath, unable to look at Patrick without losing my voice. So I focused on Toni. “When Terence took me outside, he told me some things… things I wasn't supposed to tell anyone. Not even you guys.”

  “What things?” Toni demanded.

  “He confirmed the mind reading?” Patrick asked, obviously not caring if Toni learned he'd been kept in the dark.

  “Sort of,” I told him, even as Toni started shaking his head.

  “Wow, what are you talking about?” he asked. “Mind reading? Would someone please start making sense?”