Strong Enough

by M. Leighton

  It’s easy to place all the blame on him. If it weren’t for him, at least I’d still be in the states, I’d still be me, living a life that was just “okay” as I waited for something wonderful to happen rather than this. This life is, at times, nearly unbearable. The loss of so much—my home, my father, my identity—was bad enough without Jasper. Falling for him was like getting hit by a missile filled with fireworks. It was brutally wonderful, gloriously explosive, but, in the end, short-lived and empty. Now I’m left with only wreckage. No sparks, no light, no beauty. Just the scorched wrappings of what was and is no more.

  I pack up my easel and a fresh canvas, along with some brushes and watercolors, angrily tossing it all into the basket on the front of my bike and tearing off down the lane. I don’t even glance his way when the corner of my eye catches Gerard’s car pulling up. I keep right on going as though I didn’t see him at all. I’m not in the mood to deal with him, although I’ll have to eventually. He’s tried several times to talk to me since our dinner last week, but so far I’ve been successful in holding him off. I just don’t want to deal with it yet. If he has good news from the gallery owners, it means I have to move on. If he doesn’t, it means I might never be able to move on. I’m not sure I can deal with either path right now.

  I travel the familiar road that leads to the river. Even though I’m hissing hostility like a busted radiator hisses steam, something in me yearns for the “homeyness” of the river. It’s the closest I can get to Jasper right now, and even though he’s the source of my current disgruntled state, I follow my instinct and go toward him anyway.

  When I get to the river, I’m glad to see that the bank I like is empty except for a few birds. They fly when I wheel my bike to a stop in the grass.

  I engage the kickstand and pull out my supplies from the basket, hauling it all to a sunny spot near the water’s edge. With the ease of someone who has done it dozens of times, I set up my easel and place my canvas before taking out brushes and digging out my tray of watercolors. When it’s all ready and a brush is gripped firmly between my fingers, I take one look at the bright, happy scene before me and I begin to paint.

  Thoughts about my new life, about my old one as well, circle my mind like a predator, waiting to attack. I think about how I used to think I was happy. I think about the way I felt like I was flying when I was with Jasper. I think about how nothing else mattered when I was in his arms, drowning in his kiss. Not the world outside, not the people within it, not the past or the future, not right or wrong—nothing mattered except Jasper and me and the electricity that was between us. And I think about now, today, and how I’m one step closer to giving up. How I’m sinking deeper and deeper into hopelessness and misery. It’s with all this swirling through me that I paint.

  Emotion pours from me like blood, black blood spurting from a mortal wound in some unfathomable place. The trees that take shape are dark and pointed, their branches more like thorns than foliage, and the sun never appears. It’s hidden by thick, rolling clouds that speak only of warning, warning of unpleasantness to come. And the water . . . the water looks nothing like what’s in front of me. The water on my canvas is turbulent, churning, its surface anything but placid and sweet.

  I lash at the canvas with my brush, unaware of the tears streaming down my face until another chill seems to freeze them on my cheeks.

  I gasp this time, dropping my brush and whirling around like someone tapped me on the shoulder. I look about, three hundred and sixty degrees, but don’t see even one sign of another person.

  Eyes still watering and chest now heaving, I reach for my brush, carefully examining this odd sensation that has come over me for the second time. What am I feeling? Anger? Pain? Loneliness? Desperation?

  Yes. To all of them. But why? Why would I get such a sudden burst of sensation out of nowhere? I have experienced most of these feelings practically every day since I left America, but never like this. Never all at once and so poignantly that it’s physically startling.

  When I turn back toward my painting, I see the unrest of my soul. It’s coloring everything around me, stealing beauty from the beautiful. I know I shouldn’t let this happen, shouldn’t let this go on. But I just don’t know how to stop it. I’m not sure I even can.

  —

  I wake hours later, at home and feeling exhausted. It’s still dark outside, well before dawn. I consider just lying in bed, wallowing in my misery, although I know sleep won’t find me again.

  Frustrated, I throw back the covers and make my way to the en suite bathroom just off the master. I cut on the faucet and run fairly hot water into the tub, adding just enough bubble bath to give me a nice thick, scented foam. I stretch my arms up over my head, noting the sting of the muscles in my neck from painting for so long yesterday. So long and so angrily. Maybe a hot bath and some soothing aromas are just what I need.

  I light three candles and then switch off the overhead light. After stripping off my nightclothes, I step into the tub, hissing when the nearly scalding water hits my cold feet. It takes a few seconds of adjusting before I can lower all the way down, resting my legs along the still-cool ceramic of the old claw-foot. But when my skin stops complaining, I relax my head back against the little pillow and let the steam carry every troubling thought up into the hazy air.

  I’m drifting in that place between fully awake and half asleep when I hear a muted thump. It’s so soft, I might never have heard it if I weren’t awake and quiet in the middle of the night. My eyes fly open as the fog clears from my muddled brain and I strain to listen, not certain my overactive imagination didn’t manufacture the sound.

  I hear the telltale creak as weight eases onto the platform at the top of the stairs. There’s no place to step that the boards won’t groan. It’s like a hidden alarm. And I’m alarmed. Every muscle in my body clenches. I gasp quietly, holding my breath as I debate the wisdom of trying to get up and alerting someone to my presence, or keeping quiet and hoping the intruder doesn’t come into the bathroom.

  My time quickly runs out as the muffled fall of nearly silent footsteps rustle on the carpet, drawing closer to the bathroom door. The hard, rapid thud of my heart is almost painful in its intensity, but still I remain calm and silent. My eyes search the immediate vicinity for a weapon of any kind. When they fall on the wooden box that I keep my jewelry in, I run through a quick plan on how I’ll jump up, grab it, bash my interloper in the head and then bolt down the stairs to the kitchen. Where the knives are.

  Provided that I could even escape him in this manner. I think of trying to get the better of Jasper. In any situation. I know I couldn’t. Few, if any, probably could. He’s the best for a reason. I can only hope that whoever is breaking into my home is a long way from being as good as Jasper.

  I listen closely for the approach of my creeper. The only sound I hear is the delicate crackling of the bubbles bursting all around me. I’m staring at the doorway, my heart in my throat, when a dark figure suddenly appears.

  I scream, shooting to my feet and reaching for the box, slinging it with all my might at the head looming in the shadows. I leap from the tub, my wet foot slipping on the tile and sending me lurching forward. Luckily, my attacker wasn’t expecting that and I’m able to lunge past him and out the bathroom door.

  I’m barely aware of the cool air hitting my skin as I tear through the bedroom. I’m nearly to the door when steely fingers grip my arms, jerk me to a stop and lift me off my feet to throw me onto the bed. A heavy body falls on top of me, pinning me down.

  “No reason I can’t have a little taste before I slit your beautiful throat,” a voice growls in my ear. I open my mouth to scream just as a big hand that smells like grease and smoke clamps down over my lips. “But if you’re determined to scream, I can always cut your throat first. Makes no difference to me.”

  I stare at the ceiling, at the silvery moonlight that pours in through the part in my curtain as I digest his words. My mind races for options, any options,
yet it finds none. If I scream or fight, he’ll probably kill me. But he’s going to kill me regardless and I’d rather be dead when any man besides Jasper touches me. In fact, I think I’d rather be dead than live this miserable life without him anyway. Does it matter who does it or when?

  I realize that it doesn’t. It will simply be a relief, a respite from the constant heartache that I can’t escape. That’s why, in an attempt to provoke him, I sink my teeth into the fleshy part of the palm that silences me and I flail wildly, bucking my body and straining with every muscle in my arms and legs. I feel flesh give way from bone. I taste blood. But my attacker will not be moved. He doesn’t even make a sound until I hear the wet sound of his kiss against my cheek.

  “Have it your way, princess.”

  And then I feel the prick of a knifepoint at my throat.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Muse

  I lie quietly, awaiting the cut that will end my life, when the crushing weight on my chest suddenly disappears. At first, I think he’s merely leaning back to shove a knife into me, but then I hear the scuffling of clothes, the whisper of two bodies grappling in the dark.

  Instinctively, I roll off the bed, sparing only a quick glance into the shadowed corners before I scramble down the steps, my only thought now of escape. I don’t know what happened and I don’t care. I only know that I have to get away, my instinct to survive now in full swing.

  A loud crash has me screaming and turning to see a man toppling down the stairs behind me, head over heels. He lands with a shoe-clattering thump at the bottom, a few feet from where I’m crouching.

  I struggle to understand what is happening until I see another shape appear in the slant of light that cuts across the stairwell. It moves like water and triggers an instant spark of recognition in my heart.

  I know who it is before his face is revealed. My body, my soul, my every cell and nerve react to him as profoundly as ions react to electricity. And when I see his face, God help me, I think for a moment that I’d trade my life and every breath I have left for just one more day with him.

  Jasper.

  My Jasper.

  He came for me.

  I watch him until he reaches the bottom of the steps. He pauses in front of me, his eyes scanning me briefly in a quick assessment of my current state of injury. Ostensibly determining that I’m not hurt, he turns his focus to the half-conscious man on the foyer floor.

  Jasper’s voice is a deadly growl when he bends to hiss into the man’s ear. “You would rape this woman? You would take from her what she doesn’t want to give?” The disgust, the fury in his voice is nearly palpable. He pulls the man to his feet, wrapping one thick arm around his neck and twisting the guy’s arm behind his back before slamming him, face first, into the wall. The door rattles on its hinges. “You would die to taste her? Because I would die to protect her. Which of us do you think has the better chance of surviving?”

  The man says nothing, but turns until his cheek is pressed to the wall and he’s facing me. I see one eerily calm blue eye staring out at me, promising that if he gets loose, he’ll hurt me in ways that I can’t even imagine. My blood runs cold.

  “Who sent you?” Jasper asks, shoving his weight into the man’s back. I hear a grunt, but no answer. “You’ll tell me. One way or the other, you’ll tell me.”

  The guy laughs, his eye still trained on me.

  “You may not have realized when you took this job that it would be your last, but it will be. You’re going to die tonight. How you go is up to you. If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll be quick. If you don’t, I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

  Jasper’s coolly venomous words echo in the quiet that follows. They’ve fallen to the floor, where they taunt the intruder until he finally breaks his silence. “Get on with it, then,” he goads, his expression never changing, no fear ever registering.

  “I’ve killed better men than you, but I’ve never enjoyed it. Until tonight. Until you. I’ll get what I want and then I’ll watch the life drain out of you. Because nobody comes after what’s mine. Nobody.”

  Jasper reaches out to twist the doorknob. Without looking at me, he mutters, “Stay here. I’ll be right back,” and then he disappears into the dark.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jasper

  My hands are shaking as I haul him away from Muse’s front door. I’m controlled. Always. Until tonight. I’ve never experienced rage like this. It’s like an all-consuming fire I can’t push through, a red haze I can’t see past. I can only feel the heat. I don’t bother to fight it. I just let it burn right through me.

  As soon as my foot hits grass, I pull in and up with all my might, dislocating both shoulders of the man who was going to rape and kill Muse. He makes no sound, as I knew he wouldn’t, but I know he’s in pain. I’ve had more dislocated joints than I can count. They hurt like a bitch until the numbness sets in.

  With a foot to the lower part of his back, I kick out, sending him reeling forward, unable to catch himself with his useless arms. When he hits the ground, I follow him down, rolling him onto his back and smashing my boot heel into his kneecap, crushing it so that he’s further incapacitated. I take the knife from my waistband and I jab it quickly into the meat of both thighs, careful to avoid his femoral arteries. I can’t have him bleeding out before I get my answers. I just don’t want to make it easy for him to fight me. I want to be able to look into his dead eyes until they’re just that—dead.

  “Give me a name. That’s all I want and then I’ll put this knife in the base of your skull. I’ll give you that—a quick death. No more.”

  In the dim light, I can see his face as he stares up at me. His eyes are those of a killer. I wonder if that’s what mine look like to others. If that’s what they’ve always looked like. If that’s what they always will look like.

  He says nothing. As I expected. I won’t get information from him. He’s trained to take his secrets to the grave. It’s what sets men like us apart from a legion of other hired guns. This is the code we live by.

  I lean in and press my elbow into the deformed ball of his shoulder as I reach between us to feel his pockets. I don’t really expect to find anything, but I’d be remiss not to at least check.

  I’m surprised when I find the hard, rectangular bulge of a phone in his front pocket. At least he’s smart enough to keep it there where no one can easily lift it from him. Rear pockets are easy to pick. Front ones are not.

  I wiggle my fingers in to retrieve it, pulling it out and flipping it open. It’s innocuous looking enough. Like an old flip phone. But I’m not deceived. It’s a high-tech satellite phone with encryption and a built-in voice synthesizer. This guy must be freelance, which tells me that whoever is after us must know that the government web is compromised. They know we’re onto them and they’ve moved to private contractors, men who cut ties with legit assignments and work only for the highest bidder. No conscience. No affiliation. No loyalty. Just greed, blood lust and lethal skills.

  The screen is locked, of course, so I reach for the guy’s hand. I press each finger to the screen until it unlocks and a series of letters and numbers flash in neat rows from left to right.

  “I’m a little disappointed. You’re sloppy. I wouldn’t be caught dead on the kill with my phone in my pocket. Of course, I wouldn’t get caught,” I tell him as I wait for the phone to initialize, grinding my elbow into his shoulder again.

  When it does, with the bluish glow of the screen to illuminate his face, I ask him about the first name I see in his contacts. There is no reaction. No twitch, no rise in pulse, no pupillary reaction. Not to the first name, the second name or the third.

  With my fist, I thump him in the wound on his right thigh as I tap the screen over a secure text file. It appears to be just letters and numbers again, but I quickly use one of the ciphers that we used in Saudi to decode it. It’s a simple directive. To kill Elizabeth Harker, aka Muse Harper. Below it there is a single word: “Napalm.” />
  “What’s ‘Napalm’? Is that the operation or your contact?”

  I get no answer, but I see the slight dilation of his pupils, telling me that whatever or whoever Napalm is, it’s sensitive. Protected. Important.

  Something occurs to me as I watch this man. “Why aren’t you fighting me?” Despite his wounds, a man like this—men like us—wouldn’t stop fighting. We’d push through the pain. We’d use it like fuel. Only he’s not.

  One side of his mouth quirks up. “Is there any reason to? I know who you are. You’re a soulless bastard, like me. And this is all we’ve got. We wake up every day ready to die. Nothing else to live for, so just get it over with.”

  I know I’ll get nothing more from him, just like I know that he’ll never stop coming after Muse as long as there’s a price on her head. Or on mine. It’s with mixed feelings that I lift his head and push the tip of my blade into the indention at the base of his skull. I thought I would enjoy this more, and part of me does. Part of me wants to punish him for what he intended to do to Muse. But part of me sees too much of myself in him—a man with nothing but death and loneliness to keep him company for the rest of his life.

  I know as I carry his limp body away that I’d rather die tonight than spend the rest of my life like this man. Alone. Without Muse.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Muse

  I stand with one foot outside, listening for several minutes before the cold manages to penetrate my strange stupor and remind me of my nakedness. Reluctantly, I step back inside and close the door. I start to turn away, but I can’t. I can’t bring myself to leave this spot, leave the door. I’m too afraid that Jasper won’t come back through it.

  A couple of times I think I hear a grunt or a scuffle, but it’s hard to make out much from in here. My ear is pressed to the wooden panel when it swings open, knocking me in the side of the head. I barely feel it. I’m experiencing too many jumbled emotions for it to register.