After The I Do (Meeting At The Fault Line Book 1)

by Autumn Breeze

  My mouth goes dry. Mason must have been terrified. He was no fighter.

  “There was something wrong with him. He didn’t look right. What was wrong with him?” Everett asks. I shake my head, again. He was a feral, most likely.

  “There was this log; it was rotten, but it held our weight. I couldn’t get a grip. I kept slipping because of the rain. It was covered in moss, but Mason shoved me onto it. It seemed to take forever. My whole body hurt—I must have swallowed a gallon of water, but we got to the shore. I thought we were safe. But . . . ”

  Burying his head in his knees, Everett starts to sob again. He is heartbroken.

  “Tell me, Everett.”

  “He almost fell into the creek. I thought for a moment he was going to be swept downstream, but he wasn’t. He clawed his way up the log. I wasn’t fast enough. Mason was. He was so fast,” Everett whispers. “He ran like the wind.”

  Mason had always been fast. When he was small, I would race him and lose without trying. The boy really was like the wind. He took pride in that, bragged about it to all his school friends—back when he made friends quickly—every chance he got.

  Now . . . Mason will never brag about anything again. He is gone, and I will never lose another foot race so long as I live. Maybe I will never race again because without him, what is the point?

  “We loved to race. Who am I going to race now? Who is going to be my best friend now? Who is going to trust me, believe me, be on my side even when I’m wrong now?” his voice breaks as he questions me.

  I shake my head, unable to give him an answer as I search his face. There are dark shadows under his eyes. My eyes drop to his lips. They are turning blue. He is losing too much blood.

  “He got me in the back. I screamed. It hurt; his teeth hurt so bad. Mason must have heard. I shouldn’t have screamed. I should have stayed quiet. I should have died. If I just died, Mason would have gotten home. He would have made it back here; he could have gotten help.” Everett peers at me, his eyes filled with pain and regret. “I’m so sorry. I tried. I swear, I tried.”

  Reaching out with my free hand, I touch his cheek. I believe him. He tried his best to do whatever it is he did. “I don’t know what happened. One minute, I was there, and then I wasn’t, then I was again. Mason had this stick, and he was standing over me, waving it around. The man was circling us. I tried to get up. It distracted Mason and in the next second, that monster was on him.”

  I closed my eyes, my breath leaving me in a shudder before I opened them again to find Everett looking down at his hands, a million miles away. “Mason . . . Mason . . . I don’t even think he realized. One second he was here and then . . . then . . . ”

  Curling his fingers into his palms, Everett’s breath shudders out of him the same way mine left me. “I couldn’t shift. There was no time. I didn’t know what else to do. I just . . . I just went for him. He was snarling and snapping, and I could feel his claws, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care. He was going to die. He was going to die. I was going to kill him. And I did.”

  Everett killed the feral?

  “I didn’t let go, no matter what. I just kept squeezing. I think his throat collapsed. One minute he was fighting tooth and nail, and in the next, he was just so still. He didn’t do anything but lay there on the ground.” Everett pauses before jerking to the left.

  Vomit spews across the carpet as his shoulders tremble.

  42

  Benjamin wraps an arm around Everett’s waist after dropping a blanket over his shoulders. Guiding him out of the room, past my sobbing mother and father, Ben is trying to hold himself together but I can tell he is as devastated as us all.

  Like Erian, he is holding himself together but only by a string.

  Soon, he will snap. Erian will, too.

  “I was going to tell him tonight,” Erian whispers beside me. Her gaze moves over my brother. She seems to take in every detail—at least the ones she can clearly see despite the sheet covering most of his body. “I only found out a couple weeks ago. I was waiting for the perfect time. Tonight—it was going to be tonight.”

  “What?” I cautiously question.

  “I’m pregnant,” she mutters. My eyes widen as she peers up at me. “I’ll be eleven weeks tomorrow.” She’s pregnant. I don’t doubt it is Mason’s. My little brother . . . he is—was going to be a father. No doubt, he would have been happy.

  She explains further. “I was going to tell him. I was going to explain that I didn’t think it was possible . . . because, he is—was himself and I am . . . me. I didn’t intend . . . I wasn’t going to trap him in anything. But . . . I think . . . Do you think he would have been happy?”

  Erian’s eyes fill with tears and she reaches up, using the back of her hand to remove them before they can spill over. Moving her gaze back to my brother, her shoulders shake but she doesn’t cry aloud or shed another tear.

  “He loved kids,” I tell her, my throat closing up for a moment. There was a time when he was just a boy, maybe ten or so, he planned to run an orphanage for the unwanted. Though he let go of that dream, he never let go of his love of little people. “He hated people. Lilith called it asocial—” she’d know “—but he loved kids. They loved him, too.”

  Erian nods, stepping closer to the table. She reaches out but pauses. When her gaze drifts to me again, it is as pain-filled as I imagine mine to be.

  “He’s supposed to have a necklace. Can you see . . . ” she trails off.

  I step forward and slowly extend my hands toward his twisted neck. Dipping my fingers under his shirt, I can feel the edge of a cord. Easing it up, I pull it over his head and look down at the trinket.

  The holy cross?

  “He believed, you know? I know a lot of us don’t—I don’t, but he did. He thought if God could make men who act like monsters, he could also create monsters who act like . . . men. His faith was important to him.”

  “I didn’t know,” I admit, realizing there are probably a lot of things I don’t know as I extend the necklace to her. She curls her fingers around it before drawing it toward her chest. Bowing her head, her shoulders softly shake as she exhales a ragged breath.

  “I love him,” she whispers. “Can…would it be all right if I said a prayer?”

  “Do you know one?” I ask and she nods.

  “Some of the older women believe. They would pray after . . . ” her voice breaks and she squeezes her eyes closed. I close my own eyes and struggle to draw a full breath.

  “By all means,” I mutter, opening my eyes and waving toward my brother. If he believed, he would have wanted someone to pray over him. Erian is a fitting choice.

  “God . . . our Father,” she mutters, her voice weak. “Your power brings us to birth. Your providence guides our lives and by your command, we return to dust.” Erian stops to inhale.

  “Lord—” her voice is so soft; it is hard to hear, but the words vibrate with clarity. This is a prayer she knows. “—those who die still live in your presence, their lives change but do not end.”

  Does she really believe that? Mason did.

  “I pray in hope for my family, relatives and friends, and for all the dead known to you alone.”

  Closing her eyes, she sways.

  “In company with Christ, who died and now lives, may they rejoice in your Kingdom, where all our tears are wiped away. Unite us together again in one family to sing your praise forever and ever.” A sob bursts from deep inside of Erian as she finishes and falls to her knees beside the table. My eyes water; the tears spill forth again.

  “We should wash him,” Mother whispers, her voice a dry croak.

  “I’ll see to it,” I assure her, wiping my eyes and walking around the table. Shaking her head, sending her blonde hair flying, she pushes away from Father.

  “No,” she sniffs. “He is my son and I will wash him.” Her eyes water and she presses her lips together before rubbing her palms into her eyes. “I will see to him one last time,” she manages to
choke out before she curls into herself; a low whine of pain pulling from deep inside of her. Father gathers her against him, his eyes meeting mine.

  They are broken. He is broken. This has broken him. Maybe it has broken us all.

  “I want to help,” Erian mumbles. Mother doesn’t hear her. “Mrs. Right,” she calls louder, her voice less weak and more sure. “I will help.”

  “What right do you—”

  “Let her help, Charlotte,” Father speaks, stroking his wife’s back. “Mason would have wanted that.” Mother’s shoulders bounce with her sobs even as she nods in agreement.

  “Ma—son loved . . . you,” Mother manages to choke out, turning to face Erian with Mason’s body stretched on the table between them. “We’ll do this—” she inhales sharply, her eyes still brimming with years “—together.”

  “I’ll have supplies gathered,” I tell them.

  “Ben—”

  “Will have to tend to other things,” I softly reassure Mother. “I’ll send one of the maids.” One of the newer ones who didn’t know Mason well, who will be able to help without breaking down. “Sophia and Lilith . . . ” I trail off.

  “No. Mason wouldn’t have wanted them to see him undressed. Let them—” her voice breaks and I nod in understanding.

  “Duke will sit with them.” He has been sitting with them for hours now but I doubt he is going to move. Lilith needs him. Sophia needs Lilith. I need . . . I suppose I need to find out what happened, to verify Everett’s story and take proper action.

  “Athanasios—” Father starts and I shake my head.

  “Mother needs you,” I tell him. He nods, his attention going back to his wife. He needs her right now, too. Both of them have lost a child, a cruel fate worse than one brother losing another. “I’m going to check on the girls and Everett.”

  Father gives a weak smile, one more of acknowledgement than anything.

  Leaving the room, I find Lilith and Sophia curled up on the sofa in the living room, silently clinging to each other as Duke sits in one of the chairs with his head in his hands. Without saying anything—because what is there to say—I leave in search of my husband.

  He is upstairs, washed, bandaged and tucked into bed.

  Silent tears roll down his cheeks, soaking the pillow.

  Moving around the side of the bed, I sink on the edge beside him. He shifts, moving just enough so I have more room to sit but shows no other signs of recognizing my presence. Laying a hand against his shoulder, I give him a squeeze.

  “Everett—”

  “I don’t know how far it was. It took a while to get home but . . . Mason—” Everett barely speaks above a whisper “—is heavy. I don’t think it was far. We must have only went down stream a couple of miles. If you follow the creek—the blood—you’ll find it…the body.”

  He turns his head into the pillow and I hardly hear him when he says, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m . . . I’m glad you’re okay,” I tell him. I wish Mason was okay, too. But I am glad I didn’t lose my brother and Everett in one swoop.

  “I wish I was dead,” he says and my heart squeezes. “I wish I was dead and he was alive. It isn’t fair. He had so much to live for and I have nothing.”

  “You have me,” I whisper. He turns over, pushing himself up until he rests against the headboard. He is still pale, blue around the mouth because of the Wolf’s Bane, but I doubt he is in danger of dying. Benjamin wouldn’t have left him alone if he was.

  “I don’t—not really. You doubt me. I know you do. You’re going to go look for the feral, try to confirm my story. I understand. I don’t blame you. I want you to find him, be sure he’s dead. I think he is.” Everett looks at his hands again, his tears still falling.

  “I heard his neck snap,” he tells me. “His chest wasn’t moving when I let him go. You’ll find the body. It should be mine you find. I’m sorry it isn’t. I’m sorry he’s dead and—”

  “It would hurt all the same, Everett.” Laying my palm against his jaw, I draw him toward me until our foreheads touch. My eyes burn and tears drip down my cheeks again.

  “I love my brother and now—” I choke on the words, unable to say them. Everett’s arms wrap around my waist as he pulls himself closer. “It doesn’t matter who I lose but that I have lost people I care for—love.”

  The wound would be deep no matter the person.

  “After I was allowed back in the house, Mason was the first person to talk to me. He listened, you know? He tried to understand. I don’t know if he did, but he told me it was going to be okay, that even if you never forgave me, he’d be my friend.” Everett smiles, this sad broken thing as he sits back a little.

  “He said after the war, if you didn’t want me anymore, we could be roommates over the mechanic shop. I was going to paint naked portraits of people to pay my end of the rent, he’d joke. I told him he was going to sell his body to old women partly because he liked them with wrinkles but mostly because he needed fast cash after blowing it all to impress Erian.” Everett laughs, broken and weak as he presses his fingers against his eyes.

  A chuckle bubbles in my throat because that is so much like something Mason would say.

  “He is—was my best friend,” Everett whispers, shaking his head as more tears fall.

  I want to tell him it is going to be okay but I don’t know if it is. Mason is gone and it feels as if nothing will ever be okay again.

  The world is . . .

  It’ll never be the same place without the light of Mason’s laugh and the joy of his pranks.

  “Come here, любимый; I need to hold you.” I extend my arms to him, and he hesitates a moment before climbing into my lap. Pressing his forehead against my chest, Everett wraps his arms around me once more. Seconds pass before he starts to shake, giant sobs rocking his body. My eyes burn and I blink but it does nothing to stop the flood.

  Holding Everett, rocking him back and forth, we cry together.

  Mason is dead, the rain on the roof whispers.

  The wind screams, It’s your fault.

  I wonder if perhaps Everett hears the same voice, speaking all his faults from beyond the grave.

  43

  What I’ll remember most about the day I buried my little brother is not the misery. By the time I am gray and have developed wrinkles, nearing the end of my life, I will have forgotten most of those in attendance. I won’t recall who wore what or who came with who.

  When I look back on this bleak day, I will remember the excellent weather.

  The moon is high in the sky, floating above the estate in the way only a full moon can at midnight. There isn’t a cloud in the heavens; a steady breeze smelling entirely too much of salt is blowing off the distant ocean and raises the air on the back of my neck.

  Between the weeping of my family, friends and assorted associates, an owl hoots; some other bird screeches in response. Mice scurry in the underbrush, hurrying home—back to somewhere safe—and more lethal predators hide at the edge of the forest, crouched and waiting for a bunny or other rodent of appropriate size to run across their path.

  The world spins on. Life is still happening all around us. The circle continues, undisturbed by the death of one more creature. I suppose, considering the good weather, it is a good night to die, whether you be a mouse, bunny or man but . . . it is a better night to be buried—or burned, as was Mason’s preference.

  My eyes sting, but I blink away the tears. Four days have passed since my brother’s untimely passing, and in that time I have cried a river. It feels as if there are enough tears between myself and my family to have drowned the world.

  The time to cry has passed.

  Now is not the time to mourn the loss of my brother, despite this being his funeral.

  He wouldn’t have wanted to be mourned, not for more than a moment. Mason would have wanted his life celebrated, for us to honor his memory with laughter and pranks—not tears. The young man would have wanted us to toss back a whiske
y, find our favorite food and indulge in still being alive. He deserves that—to be remembered for more than his death.

  Dying too soon, far too young, is not what defines Mason but . . . what does? His family—Charlotte, Richard, Lilith, Sophia, Everett, Duke, Erian, myself—the relationship he cultivated with all of us? His friends—not that he ever had many? The people who love him—because he is loved by so many?

  Is Mason defined by the pranks he pulled or the things he accomplished? Maybe it is a combination of all the things he was, for his short almost twenty-two years.

  “Thanos,” Father calls, and I look up. Even in the dim light, I can see how the hard years have tarnished him. The loss of Mason did what time never could—hollow out his eyes and make it seem as if his spirit has evicted his body in search of a better place to call home. “It’s time.” He motions to the torch burning beside the pyre Mason’s husk rests on.

  Stepping away from Everett who weeps softly beside me, I move toward the bed of wood and accelerant. Reaching for the torch, my hand trembles along with my soul. This feels . . . wrong, as if I have no right, as if this isn’t my place even though I am his brother. But as head of our family, because there isn’t anyone else suitable, this is my duty.

  I am supposed to light the kindling, start the fire that will produce the smoke to lead Mason’s spirit into the afterlife—if such a thing as a soul or afterlife exists. But . . .

  My gaze travels around the group of loved ones gathered. There is someone here besides myself who is suitable, isn’t there? Maybe she is more appropriate than even me.

  “Erian,” I softly call to the young woman. She withdraws from her mother’s side. I motion to the torch in much the same way my father did. “Where I am blood by birth, you are family by choice and that tie binds just as strongly. He would want you to do this.”

  Mason would want her to be able to say goodbye properly because he loved her and he would have loved their child. As young as he was, as unstable as his life had become in recent years, he would have done whatever necessary to ensure Erian and their baby were taken care of.