Chapter 17
I stare at Death, if I'm to believe him, and my mind goes blank with shock. To hear it said out loud is jarring. "Um."
"Eloquent as always, my child," he replies, features curved into a sly grin. "But there's one more thing. This is important, too. I saved it for last because it would make no sense until this point in our conversation, and because you need to remember word-for-word what I'm about to tell you.
Death sure likes to take his time getting to the point. I could say something sarcastic, but I already know him well enough that I don't want to send him off on a tangent. "Sure, I'm listening. Important stuff, word-for-word, must remember. Got it."
"You'll come to a point where you will lose all hope. But when you do, you have to—"
My view shudders, like an earthquake that affects everything and everyone but me. "What?"
His mouth moves. A half-second later, as though I'm in a poorly dubbed martial arts movie, I hear him say, "Dammit, Ella. Snap out of it. You're freaking us out."
I look around without deciding to, looking for who else might be with us. I hadn't noticed anyone else. Maybe he doesn't mean it literally. "No one here but us chickens, mister."
Faster than I can react, he reaches out and grabs my arms, and he shakes me violently. "What chickens? I think something's wrong. Grab the med-bag."
"No, I'm fine." What the hell is he talking about? Even for him, that's a weird thing to say. "Come on, tell me what I need to remember and quit messing with me."
He cocks his head to one side. "Shake it off, Mirella." That time, his voice sounds exactly like Luka's.
And for some reason, we're in my room. Death is standing over me in my bedroom, looking down. But this room isn't mine, not really. Things are where they're supposed to be, but everything in it from the carpet to the paint on the walls is dark and gray. Appropriate for whatever place he dwells in, if not heaven or hell. "Death, either let me go or stop talking nonsense. I don't have time for this."
Death frowns, clenching and then spreading out his fingers over and over again, and looks around the room like he's searching for something in a hurry.
Behind him, from the almost black shadows, there emerge several shadows, not as dark as the rest. Human outlines, like people wearing sheets and coming out of the black to scare small children. I'm not scared, though—merely wary. If they were a danger to me, I'm pretty confident Death would not be ignoring them. And just in case I'm wrong, the knives tucked into my clothes are a deadly insurance policy.
"Who are they?" I try to point, but my arm barely moves, like it's being held by a great weight. Okay, now I'm feeling significantly more concerned. "What the hell?"
From one of the shadow people, Ida's voice comes. "Ease up. You're hurting her."
Death, standing right in front of me, doesn't move his mouth and yet, his voice replies, "Well, I told you to just leave her there, but no, you convinced me to take her here."
Death's mouth moves as he says, "Shut up, both of you. Look, her eyes are open," but the voice isn't his own. Now, he's speaking in Talon's voice.
I'm now more than a little frustrated. This ridiculous game has gone on long enough. I slide my left hand behind my back, relief flooding through me when I find my arm unimpeded, and faster than Death or the shadows right behind him can react, draw one knife. One's enough to bleed him out. I'm not sure whether to point the nasty end of it at him or at the shadows behind him, though, so I let it dance in front of his eyes, inches from his nose.
"Whoa," Death says in Luka's voice.
I didn't notice it before, but Death even looks a lot like Luka, now.
"Put that away before you put someone's eye out." He glances over his shoulder at the shadows behind him, taking his eyes off me for only a moment. When he turns back to me, he's a spitting image of Luka.
My mind churns, suddenly doubting my eyes—Luka couldn't possibly be really here in my vision, after all. He doesn't have that Gift, so either this is a hallucination within the vision, or I'm not in a vision at all. Either way, my mind is playing tricks on me. The realization that I can't trust any of my senses is disorienting enough to make my head reel back onto the pillow. Sharp pains shoot through my skull, fiery and throbbing.
Lovely. The abject misery washing over me like a tsunami doesn't exactly help me think clearly. I need to push it aside, so I clench my eyes shut and focus on evening out my breathing. If it's really my friends, they can wait, and if it's really Death messing with me, then he can damn well wait, too.
"Ella? You in there? Talon, I think she's coming around. Help me sit her up.”
As I open my eyes, Luka slides one arm under mine, lifting gently.
The tension radiating off Talon is palpable when he takes my other arm, but I hurt too much to care. Instead, I close my eyes again and try to unleash a verbal flurry of blows to tell the visions to leave me alone, but it comes out garbled. My tongue is thick, like it's coated with glue.
There's dead silence for a moment, and then Luka's laugh barks out, strong and clear. I haven't heard him genuinely laugh in far too long, and as I realize what mush came out of my mouth in lieu of words, the tension is broken. The pain in my head fades, though it takes a while for me to regain my composure.
When I finally do so, and the agony clawing away at my brain behind my eyes has settled to a dull roar, I open my eyes again. Gingerly at first, afraid of the light renewing my pain or finding myself in the midst of the hallucination still, it's apparent that things are back to normal. Color exists, the people I'm with are the ones I expect, and they're all chatting quietly in their own voices.
Talon, Luka, Ida, and Glenn watch me closely, a mix of anxiety and relief painted on their faces, until Talon says, "Thanks, all of you. Now, can you give her a moment? I'll stay with her and make sure she's okay."
There's some grumbling, which I make a point to ignore, but they shuffle from the room, leaving me alone with Talon. For the first time since this weirdness began, I get a good look at him, and almost gasp. He looks... healthy. The pallid complexion is gone, the heavy bags under exhausted eyes have receded, and his eyes are bright and clear of their earlier inflamed, red appearance.
"It's good to see you again, especially with you looking a bit like yourself."
Something touches my leg, and I glance down to find his hand on my thigh, just above my right knee, and his thumb makes lazy circles across my leg. "Thanks. Surprisingly, I'm feeling better. You were in the middle of whatever that was back there when I started feeling better all of a sudden. Better than I have in years, in fact."
Before I can respond, however, the door opens. Talon and I both look over, just as Luka slides inside through the half-opened door and shuts it quietly behind him.
"Mirella, it's good to see you're feeling better. You too, Talon." His eyes lock with mine. "I was truly concerned. Do you know what happened?"
"Not really." I shake my head. I have some ideas, though, and perhaps if I share them with my friends, they won't seem so crazy. "I'm glad to see you both. I want to talk about what happened back there. Maybe you can give me some perspective, or maybe just talking it out will help me separate fact from fiction in my head."
Talon scoots over, making room for Luka to sit on my bed beside him—keeping himself between the two of us, I notice—and Luka pads over to plop down at the end of the bed.
"Sure. Go ahead." Luka offers me a faint smile.
"I had a vision. I figure you knew that part. But this one was unlike any I've had before."
Talon, his hand still on my knee, says, "Different, how? It was more severe than the others I've seen, but I think you mean something different."
"Yes, very different. For one, it didn't feel like a vision. As in, I could feel things like I was actually there, not merely observing them like on a magical TV."
Luka replies, "And yet, you never physically left us. You were here the whole time."
"Sure, of course." I have to pause to con
sider how best to explain it. "I don't think I physically went anywhere. It was more like my whole mind went somewhere else. I know that doesn't make sense—"
"Actually," Talon interrupts, "it does make a sort of sense. There are those among us who can separate their mind and body and project themselves where they will. Mortals might call it astral projection, which isn't that bad of a description, when you think about it."
"I'm just playing devil’s advocate, here, but no one has two Gifts. Astral projection, as they call it, is not Ella's." Luka's lips purse lightly, his skepticism written on his face.
I shake my head. "No. I'm not saying I did. I think someone brought me to them, not the other way around."
Talon rubs his chin with one hand, eyes narrowing slightly. "I've never heard of that, but it doesn't mean it's impossible."
"Actually, it is." Luka’s tone has a ring of finality to it.
I look him in the eyes. "What do you mean?"
He shrugs. "Our magic only affects us. Sure, there are those who can project energy—lightning, fireballs, whatever—but that's still them manipulating their own energy."
Talon's left hand slides off my knee to his lap, where he intertwines his fingers. "Telekinetics may be the source of that power, but they still throw objects. I don't see what law of nature would prevent someone from drawing Ella in a similar way."
Luka looks away. "Maybe you're right. I'm no expert. I think the more important question, though,"—his gaze clicks back to mine—"is who she thinks drew her. Ella, you said you thought someone brought you to them. Who? If we know that, then maybe we'll know the answer to some other questions, too."
I take a deep breath. This one is hard for even me to believe, and I was there. Even I’m still uncertain it wasn't merely a hallucination. "I'll just come right out and say it. In my vision, a man drew me to him. We had a long conversation, but I don't think I was out for too long. Was I?"
Both men shake their heads. Talon says, "About five minutes. Long enough to be truly worrisome."
"I thought as much. I don't understand that, either, but I had the impression my conversation lasted far longer than that. Anyway, this man was pretty evasive at first. Eventually, though, he got to his point."
"Which was?" Luka exchanges a look with Talon.
"The short version is this—he's my true father, not the man I call dad, and not Kasik. He said the only name he had ever been known by was..."
I have to gulp. My throat is dry. They're both going to think I'm nuts. Well, they're both my friends, so they'll be gentle about it at least. Maybe not Luka... I gulp again. "He says his name is 'Death,' and he is my father. The reason I think I can change even Fated deaths is that I really can. I can control death itself."
Talon's head whips up. "You think you can control him?"
"No, not him, but it. The power over death itself. I only need to learn to control it better, and I'll be able to do far more than just see a person's doom or even tweak it. I'll be able to simply will it to change, and it'll change."
Luka and Talon exchange another look. Do they think I'm insane? Well, I don't care. There’s now a hope to save Talon and Luka both, one I didn't have before, and I'm going to cling to it. "You realize this means... I may be able to cure Luka."
The room goes silent as they stare at me.
Before either of them can reply, I rise from the bed and head for the door. "I'm hungry," I say, the only explanation I'm going to give them for getting up. It's also true—I'm famished. How I can save Luka is a question that can wait. It's not like he's going to die anytime soon, after all.
Chapter 18
"Paris is lovely this time of year. " I even mean it, despite literally being cliché. "I still can't believe I'm here."
Luka, to my left with one arm crooked through mine, stands with me on an ancient bridge, looking out over a river so large it's hard to see the far side in the fading light. Only the electric glow of faraway lights makes it clear this is the majestic Seine River winding its way through Paris.
"I forget how used to portal travel I am, and how novel it is for you. To me, it's little more exciting than going through any other door. Ooh, aah, the kitchen..."
I punch Luka in the arm, and he pretends he's in agony.
"My mighty protector." I grin, then rest my head on his shoulder, enjoying the way the lights play off the rippling water.
"Don't get too comfy over there," says my other protector, Talon, as he tugs my right arm, entwined with his as my left is with Luka's.
For a moment, I feel bad for them. Then I remember I'm as much affected by all of this as they are—we’re all taking things one step at a time and seeing where they go.
Luka's laughter is a bright sound in the dimming daylight, made more so by the rarity of it. "You had your time with her. Not my fault you were the Duracell battery for Dawson's mad experiment."
"Nor my fault you're back from the dead, like some kid rammed that Duracell up his favorite toy's—"
"Stop," I say, grinning as I yank them both toward me on either side. "It's Dawson's fault, even if Talon is the reason you keep going, and going, and..."
"Yeah."
"True."
My stomach rumbles, and Talon adds, "Let's get some street food on the way to the theater, yeah?"
"I could eat." I haven't had much in a day or three. "You pick, though. I've never been here, and I know your mom sent you here all the time to run errands."
Talon grins. "She does like fresh croissants, it's true."
Luka leans over the railing on the river-side walkway, and I tighten my grip on his arm. He says, "Let's make a bet. You pick dinner, I pick dessert. Whoever Ella says picked the best food gets to sit by her at the play."
My smile turns into a smirk. These two have been jabbing like this all day. "How about I sit in the middle, so no one has to hold anyone's hand but mine? Unless you two want to hold hands and just haven't been telling me everything."
Silence. Chirp, chirp...
Luka coughs into his free hand. "So. Let's go see which of us gets to put our arm around her shoulder, shall we?"
My eyes grow wide and I purse my lips. "Actually, that's up to me. Only me." I know he's just saying it to irritate me, but... it works. I'm irritated. And amused.
As we head toward the lights and the food vendors I can smell from here wafting across the Seine’s waters, Talon says, "Scoreboard. One-nil."
"Shut up, stupid." I pull him forward, eager to get to whatever food is sending that heavenly smell my way before we go catch a play. Apparently, one cannot truly experience Parisian culture without going to one of their many theaters to catch a play. Too bad I don't speak French.
I don't really want to go, but they both want me to, so I may as well try to enjoy it. Arm in arm, we make our way off the bridge.
When we arrive at the theater, I almost walk past it until my two companions come to a halt. I was expecting billboards and a thousand lights, maybe a couple spotlights. "Wow. It's not exactly Broadway, is it?"
Luka grins, but Talon lets out a harrumph and says, "Thankfully, no. Broadway productions are to plays what Hollywood is to movies."
"I'm not sure I know what you mean."
Luka says, "Your boy is saying there's lots of glitz and glamour, but they play it safe. The really cutting-edge stuff is off-Broadway in the U.S. This place is basically off-Broadway."
The conversation is interrupted as Talon orders tickets in fluent French, and we make our way inside. The lobby is full of well-dressed Parisians—we stand out, even before they hear us speak English—and based on the chuckles around us, I imagine we're the butt of a few jokes.
I don't care. I'm not here for them. Our trio edges through the crowd, and we end up seated near the back where the view is great, but I worry about hearing the actors right up until the play begins and the narrator's voice reaches us as clearly as if he were only a few rows away.
I don't understand a word of his preamble. Luka and T
alon take turns telling me it's a re-telling of a classic from the late 1800s called Thérèse, written by some guy named Zola as a serialized novel published in a magazine over months.
As the story unfolds, I find I can actually follow the play without them, in a general way, though they keep up a banter with me about what the characters say and do.
The woman, Therese, argues with her domineering aunt about money. The aunt is a widow, and the moderate lifestyle she's used to will soon end without more money. The aunt says she has a solution, though—Therese must marry a man she hates. When he comes to the house, he sneers as he stands judging the furnishings, and refuses to sit when offered. Instead, he turns to leave and throws a big bag of coins over his shoulder at the aunt. Therese’s life is only chump change to him.
Talon explains that it's even worse than that—the man is her first cousin, the son of her dead father's far more successful younger brother. The man is rich enough to laugh off the social disgrace the marriage could bring, but the aunt isn't—she's selling her dignity.
In the next scene, Therese tries desperately to make the best of it, to make her horrid husband happy, but he treats her much like he treated her aunt's furnishings. Shoddy. She meets a poor man at a bakery, though, and they have immediate attraction. He brings her flowers—while her own house is all grays and drab—and it really stands out to me.
The two begin an affair, and for a few hours each day, we see the only time Therese smiles in any scene.
Late one night, drunk and in the bath—and still ordering her around like the maid, whom he sent home early—he makes her do menial things. Get him a glass of wine. Fetch a cigar. She even has to hold open a newspaper for him so he can read, telling her it's more interesting than she is. Throughout, it's clear she's beneath him—right up until she drowns his arrogant ass in the bathtub.
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