by Jess Evander
After a few minutes, I’m at the bank of the stream we crashed through earlier. Was that only just tonight? I feel years older than I did this morning.
Sagging to the ground, I crawl to the water and cup some into my hands. It’s cool, fresh, but I know better than to trust drinking it. Organisms that can kill me or make me sick are microscopic. Clear water doesn’t equal clean water.
Instead, I splash some over my face and wash my arms. Unwind my bandage and plunge my hands into the coolness. Next, I toe off my shoes and dip my feet in the trickling stream. I should have brought the water bottle and filled it. How long has it been since Michael had water? At the Confederates’ camp? Before then? He’s always thinking of me first and I fail to do the same. It’s probably the Shade part of me. I grimace.
Don’t think like that.
Yanking my feet from the water, I towel them off with my socks and tug my shoes back on. I forgot they were waterlogged. So much for drying off my feet. After that, I examine both my legs. Dig out the burs and thorns from all the bushes I ran through. Removing my bandage and exposing my wound is probably a stupid move. But I don’t care. I wrap the fabric back around my hand. Without Michael there, I can’t tie it off, so I just tuck the ends in. See. I don’t need him.
Why didn’t he tell me sooner? Did he think I’d go running to the Shades right away? That makes me clench my hands so hard my nails bite at my palms. My fists itch to collide with something, or someone. How could Michael keep that from me?
Well, because he’d do anything to protect me—like shield me from the worst sort of news. Because Michael cares about me. Although I can’t imagine why. I mean, being friends with the half-Shade girl hasn’t really scored him any points in Keleusma. Since he met me, it’s not like I’ve made his life any easier. No, just heaped worlds of grief on top of him. And still he stays.
Running my fingers over the cuts on my arms, I assess the damage caused by our sprint through the trees. Only skin deep. I’ll be fine.
If only I could probe inside. See what damage my mother inflicted with The Elixir. Is there some dark part lurking within me? Am I connected to Erik like the Shifters are connected to Nicholas? Can he talk to me too? That makes me shudder.
I pull my knees to my chest and circle my arms around them. Rock a bit. Allow my mind to go numb. Too bad I can’t shut it off.
A squirrel launches himself off a branch above me. I jump at the sound, then watch him sail through the night air, landing on the next tree over.
Something else clatters in the jumble of thoughts inside my brain. What if I see my mother? What should I do? Would I even recognize her? Maybe I should save my fists for her. Everything in me wants to find her and shake her, good and hard. Demand to know what was so wrong with Dad and me. Ask why we weren’t enough for her.
I palm at the tears tickling down my cheeks. Wipe my nose on the back side of my bandage. Maybe Michael was right. Ignorance would have been so much better than this turmoil.
As the water dries on my skin, I start to shiver. My teeth chatter. When did it get so cold? I try to massage heat back into my arms, but I’m still trembling. Besides that, I’m drained from being alone. I need an arm around me. I could use a kind word, or a joke to make me forget.
I crave Michael’s company.
Besides, that Shade might still be prowling around.
On wobbly legs I lurch back to where Michael’s waiting. Sitting on the ground, he leans against a wide tree, eyes closed.
But he opens them when I draw near. “You okay?”
I have to look up at the sky to keep more tears at bay.
He stretches his legs. “I do that all the time. Look at the stars when I feel lost. They’re the only things that are the same no matter what time you’re in. Maybe it’s stupid, but for some reason that gives me hope.”
Working my lip between my teeth, I nod.
Michael doesn’t get up. He’s watching my every move, like I might go to pieces at any moment. Which he’s probably right about.
A tremor works its way through my body. I step closer. “I’m so cold. Is it all right if I sit by you for a bit, just until I warm up?”
“Always.” Immediately he lifts his arm and shuffles to the side to make room for me.
I grab the seat beside him, and he lays a protective arm around my shoulders. Leaning my head back against him and the tree, I close my eyes. But I’m still shaking.
Without taking his arm away from me, he pulls the small wool blanket from the bag and drapes it over us. “Are you hungry at all?”
My eyes jolt open. “I should have gotten water. I was down by the river.”
A soft laugh rumbles in his chest. “Didn’t have to tell me that. You’re all wet. Did you fall in or something?”
“No.” I pull away. “Sorry.”
He draws me back to his side. “Don’t be stupid. Believe me, I don’t care.” His fingers find the end of my braid. “Listen, whether you believe me or not right now, I have to say this. You’re going to be okay.”
“I’m sorry about earlier.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about.”
I offer no reply. Instead, I curl up tighter against him, stealing all his warmth. My head finds a perfect pillow on his shoulder, and my eyelids droop. With him beside me, I’m okay. I’m not going to worry about the other stuff. Not tonight, anyway.
All I know is that for the first time in my life, it feels like I fit.
Sleep doesn’t come. Not that I expect it to. There’s too much to think about.
I imagine my mother walking through the woods, laughing at me. The next time I see her, she’s asking me to join her. Beckoning me. I shake my head, but then an army of Shades descend from behind her, telling me I have no choice. They reach for me, and I snap my eyes back open to make the nightmare stop.
Besides these hallucinations, there’s the Shade I witnessed killing the woman earlier. Is he still in the forest? Could he be trying to locate me? Unless he shifted afterwards, but that’s if they work like we do. I have no clue. Maybe I should. I need to be better prepared from here on out.
My eyes refuse to focus on anything. Not on the trees opposite us, not on my shoes. If a monster or the Confederates come for us now, I probably won’t notice them until it’s too late.
Stop thinking. What good will any of this do me? Close your eyes.
But I’m still awake. When I try to shut my mind off, another thought takes hold. Like the fact that Michael’s right next to me. My head rests snug on his shoulder. In my dad’s house, no guys are allowed in my bedroom. Ever. Not even Porter. When I’m downstairs watching a movie with Emma and Porter and someone starts nodding off, I can count on Dad to shoo Porter out the door in less than ten seconds flat. It’s like he has radar for that sort of thing. I always considered Dad’s antics a bit overboard.
Now it makes complete sense. Cozying up to Michael feels good too good. I’m cold, and I need to get warm. But we shouldn’t make a habit of this, even though I kind of want to. I’ve missed human contact. How the presence of someone beside me can lift my spirits. Knowing another person is just there. If I’m honest, though, it’s more than that. It’s Michael. He makes me feel safe, like I belong.
Michael’s distracted too. His chin will rest on my head for a few minutes. Then he’ll lift it, scan the forest, lean it back against the tree and take a deep breath. Is he watching for Shades too? Or worse—does he not want to be beside me? For all he said, it is possible that he thinks I’ll go over to the bad side now. That I’m too dangerous to keep around.
I run my hand back and forth over the tip of the blanket. “Are you afraid of me?”
He turns toward me, face scrunching. “What are you talking about?”
My chin trembles. “There’s something wrong with me.”
Shoving the blanket down, he removes his arm from where it was wrapped around me. Drawing his legs in, he faces me. “Gabby, you’re ridiculous.”
So much
for hashing things out with him. I cross my arms, look away. Blink rapidly.
When he squeezes my arm, I peek back over my shoulder at him.
He shakes his head slowly. “You’re something else, you know that, right? I tell you I killed someone, and you cuddle up next to me. Then you ask me if I’m scared of you?” One side of his mouth tilts upward, but there is no humor in his voice.
Does he think I’m stupid? I know Michael’s not a murderer. I shoot him a quick glare and turn my back on him again.
But he lays his hand on my neck, underneath my braid. “Sorry. It’s just—no one can determine who you are besides you. Do you get that? What your mother did doesn’t mean anything. At least not to me.” He rubs a warm circle on my shoulder. “You choose what type of person you’re going to become, and what path you go down. That’s set by your actions, no one else’s.”
His words open a deadbolt over my heart I didn’t even know was there. I am not my father’s mistakes. I am not my mother’s wrongdoing. I can be Gabby.
Now if only I could figure out who that is.
I spin around, enclosing Michael’s hand between both of mine. “I’m not afraid of you, either.” He tries to pull away, but I hold tight. “I know you, Michael. You didn’t hurt anyone. You couldn’t. It’s not in you.”
“You don’t know enough about me to say that.” He lets me keep his hand, but he scoots back against the tree. I do the same. There’s about half a foot of space between us. We’re not touching anymore, except for our hands.
Michael’s quiet for a long time. Not quite the reaction I pictured.
Then the muscles in his arm tense, even his fingers as they lace with mine. He sucks in a quick breath. “Her name was Kayla. My Pairing. Scrawny little girl with this hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be blonde or brown.”
I rub my thumb over the top of his hand. Letting him know I’m here.
Lost in a memory, he chuckles. “We were just kids. Our favorite thing was to reenact cartoon movies we liked. I’d play the hero. Save her from the troll under the tree house. Stuff like that.”
“Sounds like a good childhood.”
He brings his free hand to his jaw and grasps it for a second. “We had a snow day from school. During one of those bad winters in Chicago.” He presses his thumb and pointer fingers on the bridge of his nose. “Feet and feet of snow. Next to the roads, where they plowed, it was the highest. I spent all morning digging out a fort for us there.”
His chest heaves. “Kayla wasn’t adventurous. Not brave like you are. She didn’t want to go into the cave I built. Never liked closed-in spaces much. But I convinced her. Told her I’d tell her a secret if she would just come in and see how cool I’d made it inside. Something dumb like that.”
Silence blankets us for a minute. I don’t jump to fill it. Whatever Michael wants to tell me, I’m going to give him the time he needs.
He stares out at the tree across the way from us. “Once she was in there, she told me she liked it. But I always wonder with the Pairings—do they actually have a mind of their own? Could they decide not to like us if they wanted to? That always bothered me.”
My shoulders droop. Is it that way for Porter? Somehow is he stuck or forced to care about me? I’ve always kind of thought he and Emma would be good together. She’s made goggle eyes at him since the third grade. Not that he’s noticed. Perhaps it’s because he didn’t have a choice. “It doesn’t seem fair that way.”
Michael nods. “We were in there awhile and I finally went into my house to get hot chocolate for the both of us.” As if he’s shielding himself, he brings up his knees, and rests his head in his free hand. “The snow plow came. They didn’t know she was in there.”
The world seems to slow down. My gut clenches. I gasp without realizing it as I imagine a small girl being killed by the blade of a plow. Did the snow turn red? Did Michael have to see her like that? My arms burn to hug him. To take any amount of his pain away. But I don’t know if he’d welcome my comfort. Does he miss her? Wish it was her here holding his hand instead of me?
His eyes are still closed.
What to say? Nothing. Keep my mouth shut. I just hold his hand. Make it warm. Let him know I’m still here, and will be, no matter what.
I rub my brow, blinking back tears for the boy who saw his friend die. Also for the guy who’s carried around the unnecessary weight of an accident for so long. But I don’t want to say something empty. Now’s not the right time. He doesn’t want to hear that it wasn’t his fault. People never want to hear that. It steals their guilt, and sometimes that’s all they have to cling to. If I take that away, he might drown. Besides, I can tell him that until I’m blue in the face, but it won’t mean anything until he believes it for himself. Until he lets go.
He breaks our handhold. “Nicholas took me before I could make it worse. I didn’t even get to the sidewalk before I shifted. It’s ironic really.” He pauses, looks away. “The one time Kayla actually needed a hero, I didn’t save her.”
I study him, but it’s difficult to read his face in the shadows. “Were you in love with her?”
“I was eleven.” A bird calls in the distance, long and low. When the song stops, I listen for another to return it. But the only other sounds are the churning creek, a few toads crooning, and bugs carousing during their evening journeys. No other bird. No answer.
I pick at a scratch near my elbow. “So that’s why you never went back to your time?”
Standing abruptly, he shoves his fingers into his hair. “My mom could pull me back, if she wanted to. But that’ll never happen.”
“You can’t be sure. She might still.”
“No. After I left, she wrote me off. I ruined her life. There was a dead girl in her front yard and a missing son. When the cops arrived she had no way to explain it. They suspected her of wrongdoing. Don’t ask me how. I only know because my dad went back without me once before he died. Right before he and I went on our first mission together. Our only mission together.”
“It still could happen.”
He snorts. “It’s been seven years. I’m not exactly holding my breath.” Plucking a leaf from a nearby bush, he weaves it through his fingers. “I don’t blame her. Because of me, Dad’s gone too.” He balls up the leaf and tosses it to the ground.
With my chin in my hand, I watch him. Wonder what’s going on in his mind. Does the past keep him up at night? Drive him to take on tougher missions? I don’t understand how his own mother wouldn’t want him. She has to understand that Michael was a kid, and the snow plow was a freak occurrence.
Okay, so maybe I’m not the best one to process this kind of stuff. I mean, my mom doesn’t want me, so who am I to rationalize about Michael’s mom? What I do know is, if I could, I’d travel to her time and make her sit down and listen to what an amazing son she has. Tell her all she’s missing.
Leaves whisper as the breeze stirs around us. I trace my finger over my bracelet. Michael’s arms are crossed. With his head tipped all the way back, he’s looking through a break in the canopy at the night sky. Didn’t he say that’s what he does when he feels lost?
“They’re the only things that are the same no matter what time you’re in.”
My heart feels like a giant gaping hole. It’s a hollow ache, something that, while not particularly painful, is always there. Does he feel that way too? Do memories snare at his heart, tugging and ripping at him? I rub the heel of my hand on my chest, trying to make it all go away.
How is he able to encourage others and not walk around jaded? Well, now it’s my turn to help him think about something else, although I don’t have his gift of making people smile.
But his story has caused my own dark days to bubble to the surface. Times I would like to keep locked away in a trunk marked ‘do not open.’ Too bad I’ve never been able to hold my tongue.
“Once I tried to kill myself.” I slap both my hands over my mouth. Way to lighten up a room. What on earth is wrong
with me? That’s not the right thing to say after someone spills their darkest hour with you.
Michael freezes. Slowly turns toward me. Even with only sparse moonlight, I see his eyes grow wide. His lips press together.
Okay, if calming Michael is my goal—that was definitely not the right thing to say.
He strides to where my feet rest, towers above me. “Are you messing with me?”
Why did I even say it? I focus all my attention on a cricket as it hops near my side.
Dropping to his knees, Michael takes my face in his hands. He tips my chin so he can read my expression. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
I push my shifting bracelet down my arm as far as it will go. Trace the white scars that glare underneath it.
He grabs my arm and brings my wrist a couple inches from his face. His eyes narrow. “You cut yourself?”
“Just one time. It’s not like I make a habit of it.” Snatching my hand back, I tuck it under the other. Press them both to my stomach.
He sits down fully. “Once is enough. Don’t ever do that again.”
“It’s not like I planned it. Life with my dad got rough. I was lonely.”
Leaning forward, his voice is hushed. “But you know your worth now ... don’t you?”
I shrug. “Don’t other people decide that?”
“No. You have worth because you’re a Shifter. Because Nicholas cares about you. Because you breathe. Okay?” He snags the blanket from the ground, and tucks it back around me. “Besides, you’re not alone anymore. I’m here with you, and when I’m not, remember Nicholas always is.”
I fight an eye roll. “He’s not all that comforting.”
“You’ll figure him out eventually.” Michael yanks the book bag from beside the tree. “Here. Use this as a pillow. You need some shut-eye.”
I take it and lay down.
He pulls the blanket to my chin. “Warm enough?”
No. I want him back next to me. “Yes.”
Then he strides about twenty feet away—it feels like miles—where he leans against another large tree and slides to the ground. Hooks his ankles together, crosses his arms, and tips his head back.