Archetype

by M. D. Waters

  His hand touches my elbow, and his gaze burns into my skin.

  He is close. So close.

  His champagne glass inclines toward the next partition. “Shall we?”

  I hesitate to respond, but he does not wait for me to. He nudges me gently and I have to communicate to my feet that I must walk or fall over. The last thing I want is to draw Declan’s attention to my eavesdropping, which I am ashamed to admit makes me curious about far too many things.

  Noah follows alongside me and we stop in front of the next painting. On the beach lay indigo petals leading to a receding tide. A seagull stands on one foot with a single petal in its mouth. This is a replica of my very first painting, only I left out the arch wrapped in soft fabric.

  He leans in, and my attention falls instantly to his lips as he says, “I always loved the ocean.”

  Despite his last name and the memories associated with it, he is still Noah. The man who attempted to kill me in a memory I cannot make sense of. I am wary of his intensions and do not want to share anything with him, let alone my precious beaches, but he has information I need and hope to get at some point. Remaining civil is the only course of action I have. “Have you spent much time there?”

  He shifts his attention back to the painting and draws in a deep breath. His chin falls for only a moment, and when he looks at me again, I am surprised to see the tilted grin on his face. His amber eyes watch me steadily for every nuance. “Have you?”

  Why does he continue with this charade? I know why I do; I have no reason to trust him yet. I need to know who I am dealing with—Noah or Tucker—before I give anything away. But him? What is his excuse?

  “No. Maybe someday.” I avert my eyes, finding it too hard to stop looking at his lips. His eyes have an even worse effect on me. Instead, I find a much needed peace in the luckenbooth hidden in the brushstrokes.

  “You realize you won’t find a beach like this in the Americas—West or otherwise.”

  I nod. “War is a devastating thing, but in Mex—” I stop abruptly. I cannot trust this man not to tell Declan I paint a beach in Mexico. I have been too careful to hide this since coming to this realization.

  He tilts his head as if trying to hear the words I refuse to say. “You are painting a specific place. Why does your husband believe your inspiration comes from a photograph?”

  My heart beats erratically. “Dr. Travista says the photograph was taken in California. So I suppose you could say I do paint from a specific location.”

  “That’s not what you were going to say.” He steps closer. The musk on his skin stirs heat in my stomach.

  I lengthen my spine, and as much as I want to put space between us, I will not show him fear. Unfortunately, the way he leans toward me, this nearly puts us nose to nose.

  “Tell me,” he says in a voice low and even.

  I know now I am seeing the side of this man I have no interest in dealing with. The side that can be violently angry. Noah. Not Tucker.

  “No.” I do not know why I say it, but it is out and there is nothing I can do about it.

  His eyes burn holes through me for a protracted moment. Finally, he takes my champagne flute and sets both his and mine on a passing tray of full glasses. Before I can voice my disapproval, he leads me once again through the room and into a brightly lit corridor. We are surrounded by doors, a few leading to offices. We are also out of sight and earshot.

  Alone.

  “Mr. Tucker—”

  Noah’s arm moves like a shot to pin me to the wall. My head bounces off the surface, blurring my vision. I feel cool metal pressed to my forehead before I see the gun.

  His eyes are unwavering as they look into mine. There is no mistaking the bloodlust in them. “Tell me, Mrs. Burke, what do you know about Mexico?”

  CHAPTER 25

  My breath stills and I hear nothing more than blood rushing like a raging rapid through my ears. Noah Tucker is going to kill me.

  Talk to him, She tells me. Talk or you’re dead.

  “Noah,” I plead in a whisper. Less than a whisper. A wisp of breath. I blink away tears to see him clearly. “Please.”

  There is only a moment—a very small one—in which the gun slips down, and Noah reaffirms his grip to bring it back up. A war of emotions collides in his bright amber eyes, which I do not understand, like he cannot decide what to do, or he knows and does not want to do it.

  “Please,” I say again, and my voice quivers. “I know nothing about Mexico.”

  “Nothing?” His voice sounds tight, as if he has to strain to get it to work. “There’s an entire room out there that proves otherwise.”

  “And you would kill me for it?”

  He presses the barrel of the gun farther into my skull. I see a shift in his eyes then and know he is decided. “I would kill you for simply drawing breath.”

  “Wh-what? Why?”

  He shakes his head once. His jaw clenches. “What are your orders?”

  “I do not understand. There are no orders.”

  “Bullshit. You’re here for a reason. Did you think you could slide right back into place?”

  “Into what place?”

  “With the resistance.”

  This is about the resistance? Heat floods my face and I clench my fists. Charles accused me of this as well. I am tired of standing trial for this past I do not remember. It is my future I care about, and I would never work with the resistance to hurt my husband. I would die first.

  “You know nothing about me,” I tell him through gritted teeth.

  Anger compels me to act now. I swipe my hand up to his wrist, and the gun is off me before he can react. I twist our bodies around and slam him face-first into the wall. He spins around and I drive my knee up hard between his legs. He doubles over with a pained moan. I take the gun from his loosened grip and run toward the safety of the main room.

  In the dim lighting of the exhibit, I slow and cover the weapon in my skirts. No one pays me any mind, and for once, I am grateful. I am breathing too hard, and sweat tickles my brow.

  I find a decorative vase to my right that stands to my waist. I drop Noah’s gun inside. There is a loud clang, but the music playing in the speakers muffles the sound.

  Though free of the weapon, I will not feel safe until I find Declan and tell him about—

  My chest tightens at the mere idea of telling Declan what Noah has done. I have not felt this since those early days when She prevented me from talking about my dreams. My dreams of Noah. Even now, after what he has done, She would protect him.

  But I cannot let him get away with this. I do not care what She thinks. I stop a waiter and open my mouth to ask for security, but suddenly there is no air to breathe. I cannot make a single sound, let alone speak. My face grows warm from exertion.

  Don’t even think about it, She warns. Trust me on this.

  I hate Her in this moment.

  “Ma’am?” he says.

  Noah appears and takes two glasses of champagne off the waiter’s tray. “Thank you,” he tells the young man in a dismissive tone.

  The waiter leaves and I am abruptly able to breathe.

  Noah turns to face me with an expression that is almost friendly. He plays for any audience we may have in the room, but his eyes reveal the same bloodlust from the hallway. I am not fooled.

  “You let me live,” he says.

  “And you tried to kill me.”

  “Give me my gun. I’ll try again.”

  I raise my hands to show they are empty.

  He shrugs. “I don’t need a gun to kill you.”

  “You would not dare in a room full of Declan’s closest friends and acquaintances.”

  He lifts his chin in a half nod, then steps very close to me. He hands me a champagne flute. “Tell me something, Mrs. Burke. My intentions to kill you are clear, yet you have not run screaming for help . . . in this . . . ‘room full of Declan’s closest friends and acquaintances.’”

  I cannot tell him tha
t my very own invisible friend prevents me. Even I find it hard to believe, and I am the one who experiences it. “I need answers,” I tell him instead. It is the truth, at least.

  He lifts the glass to his lips with a smile that does not touch his eyes. “Funny. So do I.”

  “I have none.”

  “Don’t think to play me, Mrs. Burke. I don’t need the answers that badly.”

  Neither of us has a chance to say anything more, because an arm slips around my waist and Declan’s strong musk overpowers Noah’s. Relief floods me so fast I fear I will faint.

  “There you are,” Declan says. “Sorry that took so long.”

  I hold Noah’s gaze for a long moment before smiling up at my husband. “Mr. Tucker was just keeping me company.”

  “I was telling your wife how much I appreciate her style,” Noah adds. “There’s just something about the way she captures the simplicity of a drift of sand.”

  “Do you have a favorite?” Declan asks.

  Noah nods once. “As a matter of fact, I won a private bidding war over it. The one that’s been in the window the entire month.”

  I am sick to find out he will have his hands on my painting.

  Declan laughs from somewhere deep in his chest, and the sound carries around us until it draws the attention of several people. “So you’re the lucky man. Emma won’t admit it, but I think that was her favorite. You should have seen her face when she found out it was sold.”

  Noah catches my eye again. “I’d be happy to let it go if you can’t part with it.”

  I force a smile to my face. “No. Please take it. You worked hard for it, or so I hear. Practically killed for it. I can paint a thousand more just like it.”

  Noah inclines his head to me, a smile twitching his lips. “In that case, I’m happy to keep it. I promise to take care of it as if it were my own creation.” He leans close and adds conspiratorially, “Or at least as if I shared in the process.”

  I feel as if I have been slapped with my own memory. By Tucker.

  There. What do you think? An original by Emma and—

  Oh, no you don’t. You aren’t claiming my work. An original by Emma and Emma alone.

  The smile I give him is tight-lipped because I can no longer manage anything more. He has unraveled me to my very center. I would not tell Declan about how Noah wants to kill me even if I could. Noah knows much more than he is letting on. I know he does.

  “Well,” Noah finally says, “I should get going. I have an early morning.”

  Declan extends a hand. “Don’t be a stranger, Tuck.”

  “Mr. Tucker does not like this nickname,” I say automatically and wish for nothing more than to be able to take the words back. I cannot imagine what possessed me to say such a thing.

  Both men stare at me with wide eyes. Declan looks mildly amused, but the color has drained from Noah’s face. His jaw hangs slightly ajar.

  Declan glances between us. “When did you become privy to the innermost secrets of Mr. Tucker’s mind?”

  I clear my throat, hoping they do not notice the creeping of red I feel splotching my chest and neck.

  “I mentioned it a few minutes ago in conversation,” Noah says, his gaze pinned to me with such ferocity, it is a wonder it has not slung me across the room.

  I understand in this moment that I have been given a temporary stay of execution. Bloodlust has been replaced with questions he would rather have answered.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Noah says, and his focus is on Declan, but his words . . . Those are for me.

  CHAPTER 26

  Dr. Travista removes his glasses and tilts his head. “I haven’t seen you this tired since you suffered from your nightmares.”

  I touch the soft skin under my eye, recalling the bruised look in the mirror. Sleep had been difficult to achieve, and when I did finally slip into oblivion, I dreamed of Noah and our conversation at the gallery show. He put a gun to my head, but instead of hesitating, he pulled the trigger.

  “Long night,” I say and study the office I now know every nook and cranny of. Every warped shelf weighted with books. The unraveling piece of the carpet near the right foot of his chair.

  “An exciting night,” he adds, and his smile does not touch his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry I missed it. Declan says all of your paintings sold.”

  I nod. “The theme was popular. Mr. Geist says it was because no one ever gets to see the beach like that anymore. Not since the war and separation of states.”

  “Unless, of course, they want to travel to Mexico.” He says this easily, as if this is not loaded with accusation.

  “I suppose you are right,” I say with a shrug. “Maybe one day I can travel there, see it for myself.”

  He slides his glasses back on and taps something into his tablet. I grow tired of these sessions, his incessant typing about me as if I am a mental patient. Why does he insist our time together continue? Am I not perfectly healthy now?

  “Why am I here?” I ask before I can stop myself. Exhaustion is not conducive to my usual patience. “I feel I am fully recovered from my accident—an accident I would like you to tell me about.”

  His gaze snaps up to look at me through his lashes, but he is careful to maintain a neutral expression. “You are healthy,” he says and is slow to remove his glasses. “But you have yet to recover any memories.” The muscles around his lips twitch slightly, and he looks down at his folded hands. “As for your accident, well, let’s just say it’s a miracle you’re alive.”

  I want to ask why he was so quick to find fault in my remembering seagulls in Mexico if he is so eager for me to get my memories back, but this is the closest he has come to telling me anything about my accident.

  “What happened to me?” I press. “Maybe if you tell me, I will begin to remember things.”

  He taps his fingers on the leather arm of his chair, watching but not seeing them. He nibbles on the inside of his lip for a moment, then says, “The events of your accident were very traumatic, Emma. We only want to protect you.”

  I lean forward and brace my elbows on my knees. I try to catch his eyes, but he avoids them. “I wish to know.”

  A buzzing sound on his desk startles both of us until we realize it is only his phone. He stands and lifts the thin receiver to his ear, saying nothing. Instead, he listens to the muffled voice on the other end and nods several times. His gaze is pinned to the digital frame he has moved from the bookcase to his desk. The rotating pictures of Jodi.

  The speaker must not have a lot to say; nor does he require a response, because Dr. Travista is off the phone without a word in less than ten seconds.

  He raises his bushy eyebrows at me, and there is a slight pout to his lower lip. Finally, he says, “That was your husband. He says to tell you that you and he will speak about this later. He wishes to tell you himself.”

  I stand and lift my chin. “Fine. Then I guess we are done here.”

  I am spinning to leave when he says, “Emma, we just started our session.”

  “And I am ending it.”

  I do not wait for him to respond. I am aggravated and tired and do not trust myself to hold my temper. It is not as if I have not gained ground, but I do not wish to wait for Declan to arrive at home tonight to learn this. I was only seconds from getting Dr. Travista to tell me. I am tired of everything being on their time.

  I come to the epicenter of the hallways when a voice I recognize makes me stop. Richard Farris, the man whose conversation with Declan last night I heard only part of thanks to Noah Tucker. With all the excitement, I had almost forgotten how he wanted to meet with Declan about some trial.

  “You didn’t have to meet us here,” Richard says. “We would have come to your office.”

  “Not necessary.”

  Declan? I peer around the corner to see Declan, Richard, and a petite woman with long auburn hair pinned up in a chignon. She cannot be much older than me, which makes her roughly twenty years younger than her own h
usband. She smiles easily between the two men but says nothing. This must be Richard’s wife, Lydia.

  Richard and Lydia had come out of the transportation room, but Declan did not, which makes me wonder if he has been in the building the entire time. He was just on the phone with Dr. Travista. Watching me. And Richard had said “your office,” which can only mean my husband keeps an office in this building.

  Declan shakes Richard’s hand and nods in my direction, forcing me to duck back. “Shall we get started? Arthur will meet with us after his session with Emma. I can at least give you the basic tour, and then Arthur can give you the details.”

  I peek back around, and he is smiling at Lydia. “How about I show you to the lounge?”

  Richard rubs a hand over her back. “Actually, Lydia is well aware of what we’re talking about and is a willing participant.”

  Declan’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead. “Is that right?”

  She nods. “I was devastated when I heard I couldn’t have more children, Mr. Burke. If your doctor can help me, I will do whatever it takes.”

  My jaw drops before I can stop it. Dr. Travista has cured the fertility issue?

  Declan laughs a short burst of sound. “Well, that’s good to hear. It will certainly make Arthur’s job a lot easier.”

  Easier how?

  She smiles and takes her husband’s hand. “I aim to please.”

  I blink in surprise.

  Stepford wife, She says.

  I nod in agreement, though I do not know to what she refers. She always reacts with annoyance when I ask, and right now it does not matter in the face of this new situation. Lydia is nothing like Paula the hairdresser, who says none of us ends up where we want to. She ended up exactly where she wanted. Maybe like me, she has a husband who loves her. Maybe she wants to give him a large family because she truly loves him.

  Or she’s a very good actress, She says.

  Maybe, I say, but I do not believe it.

  I consider revealing myself; I want to look right into this woman’s eyes and search for any sign she could be lying. I even attempt to shift my foot forward but find my muscles are locked.