“I’m not missing the stupid driveway!” shouted Sam. She brought the car to a sudden halt and they shimmied through the gravel for a couple of feet.
“Just tell me this,” said Will. His voice was ragged now, his breathing coming too fast, like hers. “Are you breaking up with me? Is that what the last couple weeks have been about?”
There wasn’t enough air in the car. Or the world. She tried to slow down her breathing, which was shallow and frantic. Tried to take a deep breath.
“I don’t know what I want,” said Sam, trying to work up the courage to tell Will how scared she was. How she just wanted to get out of the fast lane and hold on tightly to the people she loved.
“Okay,” said Will, turning away from her. “So I’ll make it easy on both of us. I’ll break up with you. You can tell everyone it was my fault.” He swore. “You know what? Tell everyone whatever you want.” He threw open the door, jumped out of Sam’s car, slammed the door shut, and stomped across the gravel drive to Sir Walter’s front door.
“Will,” she called out. “Will!”
At the same moment, it occurred to both of them that there was no one home. Sir Walter had moved to Midgard Adventure! Camp and Gwyn and Chrétien were spending the night in Yosemite. Will kicked at the ground in frustration.
Sam shoved her door open and jumped outside to tell Will to get back in the car. To tell him they needed to talk. But before she could reach him, Will rippled, vanishing into thin air.
“Will,” she called. She waited for him to reappear. “Will!” she called again. He didn’t solidify. She thumped a fist on the hood her vehicle and called out again. “Wait! I’m sorry! Will!”
There was no answer. She could feel the truth. Will was long gone and she was alone.
14
WHERE IT CAUGHT ON BONE
Will needed to be invisible. He did not need Sam to take him back home. He didn’t need anything from her. Not anymore. She’d made it perfectly clear she didn’t feel the same way he felt about her.
Sam didn’t want him.
The thought cut through him, knife-like, shuddering where it caught on bone.
He punched the air with an invisible fist and hurled himself faster down the road that led out of town. He took the turn leading to Midgard. He sure as hell didn’t want to go home right now and face twenty questions from Mickie. Or, worse, find Mick and Pfeffer snuggled up on the tiny couch in the living room.
Will cursed and shot up into the air above the road. He needed some distance. He needed something to punch. Skandor’s parents had offered to pay him to stack green wood from trees that had fallen over the winter. It would be a lot nicer to run a chainsaw through the downed trees. He thought a chainsaw would feel pretty good in his hands right now. Or an axe. Or a really big hammer and some glass, maybe.
Angry words flew through his mind. How could he have been so blind to how Sam felt about him? She didn’t love him. She didn’t want him in her life. It pierced him again; again he felt the shudder of blade on bone.
For months now, he’d assumed that whatever friction there was between them, it would just take a day away, a weekend spent talking it through. They were supposed to do something for Valentine’s, and Will had planned to have a long talk then. But Valentine’s had come and gone and there’d been no date and no talk.
But still, even with whatever friction he’d sensed, Will had assumed she was still … in love. Whatever that meant.
He still was.
As he’d stood beside Chrétien this afternoon, Will hadn’t been able to stop grinning. There was something so right about saying the words out loud, pledging yourself body and soul to another person: To have and to hold.
This had been what Will wanted. He’d made the mistake of assuming Sam wanted it, too. Hell, he’d practically mouthed the words along with Chrétien, savoring the beauty and purity of the ceremony. He’d been thinking of a lifetime spent growing old with Sam, laughing over hard times, maybe a kid or two someday, with Sam’s beautiful grey eyes.
So much for that.
He’d been an idiot. The signs were all there. Sam’s short answers. The way she’d stopped smiling when they were together. How had he missed the clues that she simply didn’t care anymore? He felt a wash of emotion that would’ve brought tears if he’d been solid.
Just a few miles left to Midgard. Without meaning to, he’d drifted toward the ground. Now, he felt the prickle of pine needles as he passed through limbs and branches. He rose again, pushing forward faster. He needed that hard labor now, and not just for the money. Not at all for the money. He needed to work and work and work until he was too tired to do anything but sleep. How else could he hope to fill the hole left by Sam’s rejection? He was going to need hard physical labor, and lots of it. Maybe he could start on those new garden boxes Mick wanted.
A memory flashed through his mind: Sam, smiling as she pulled a carrot out of the raised bed, proud as anything for having convinced something to grow in Mick’s tiny garden. Another memory: Sam, learning how to make his killer tomato sauce, slicing a small amount of carrot into it for sweetness. The scent of her hair as he leaned in to steady her hand on the chef’s knife.
The scent of her hair.
How was he supposed to live without Sam in his life?
He had to tear himself away from the past. It was no good trying to live there. As for the future? He’d thought he’d known what his future would look like. He’d been mistaken. It was time to move on. Time to make new plans, alone.
Clouds clung to the mountain, today, as Will made his way up to Skandor’s home. This was February weather, all right. It might even snow. So much the better. Icy cold air and hard work sounded about perfect right now.
15
OVER THE EDGE
Katrin’s eyes fluttered open.
Skandor! Where was he?
Actually, where was she?
The room was unfamiliar. The light didn’t even look right for Geneses. Where was she? She raised her head. Oof! Her body responded sluggishly.
Instead of Fritz, whom she expected to see, she saw Georg.
“Georg? What happened? Where’s Fritz?” She swallowed, her voice was raspy. “Is Skandor safe?”
As she watched, several emotions flickered over Georg’s visage.
“Fritz is dead,” he said. “And you’re safe.”
She was glad to hear these things, but both were insignificant compared to the issue of Skandor’s safety.
“And Skandor? I saw Skandor lying dead on the floor in Fritz’s office, and then I saw him alive. He was running toward me—” She broke off and looked at Georg, confused. “What happened after Fritz grabbed me?”
“Katrin,” began Georg, his voice soft, soothing. He took her hand in both of his. “My dear Katrin….”
“What is it? Tell me!”
Georg shook his head, an expression of great sorrow on his face. “Skandor didn’t make it. He and Sir Walter and Uncle Fritz … they were fighting and the three of them went over the edge together.”
“The edge of what?” demanded Katrin. Her heart began pumping rapidly. She could hear her pulse in her ears. When Georg was silent, she repeated her question. “The edge of what, Georg? We were in the lobby when Fritz grabbed me.”
Grief etched itself on Georg’s face. “I’m so sorry, Katrin. Fritz took you to the roof. I followed—I was trying to find you. Fritz had placed you inside his helicopter. I didn’t see what was happening outside until it was too late—they fell together, over the edge of the building, back in San Francisco. None of them could vanish to safety due to Neuroplex darts and the Immutin cream.”
Katrin gasped in horror. “But … but … that’s impossible.” She said the words without thinking. It felt impossible, so it had to be impossible. Skandor was alive! He couldn’t be dead. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.
Georg’s eyes dropped to where he held her hand in his. “I’m so sorry. Truly.”
Invo
luntarily, Katrin began to shake. What good did shaking do anyone? What good did it do Skandor?
“Katrin,” said Georg, leaning forward to cradle her gently against himself.
She pushed him away. “I saw him, Georg, and then—” She broke off. What had happened next? Fritz had materialized. He’d opened his mouth and shouted something at her and then she woke up here. “Fritz forced me to fall asleep, didn’t he?” she murmured. “I think I remember that.” She looked helplessly at Georg. “Is that what happened?”
“Yes, I think so. I saw him disappear with you after you collapsed. I didn’t know where to go, so I searched for Fritz and waited for the chance to ask him where you were. He trusted me, you see, and—”
“You said he fell from the roof? Where the helipad is?” Katrin’s brow furrowed. She swiped at a tear.
“Yes,” said Georg. “Back in San Francisco.”
“You keep saying that. ‘Back in San Francisco.’ Where are we?” Katrin glanced around the room, trying to make it look like a room in Geneses.
“Oh, my dear Katrin,” said Georg. “I didn’t know what to do after the three of them died. I was afraid you and I might be blamed for their deaths if we remained at Geneses.”
Katrin felt her throat tighten. Her stomach was in revolt. With great effort, she forced herself to focus on the conversation, not on her feelings. “So you left.”
“Yes,” said Georg, nodding. “And I took you with me, so we could be safe together.”
She slipped her hand free of his. “Skandor,’ she murmured. She shook her head. “I need to be alone. Please.”
She saw a flare of something in Georg’s eyes. Anger? But all he said was, “Of course. I’ll go make you some tea.”
“Yes,” she said. Anything for a moment alone.
As soon as he left, the tears came, hot and fast. She stood and walked from one side of the room to the other. Skandor couldn’t be dead. It was impossible. It was terrible. She needed all of it to be a lie, but what reason would Georg have for lying to her? She convulsed with tears, imagining the whole, terrible thing. Fritz and Waldhart battling, Skandor rushing forward to break them apart, or to offer help, and then … and then….
A sob broke from her. It was too horrible. To have survived whatever happened in Fritz’s office only to fall to his death an hour later? A noise escaped her throat, half cry, half grunt, primal. She sank to the ground, curling her body around bent knees. She groaned. She let the tears fall freely. Skandor was dead. Brave Skandor was dead.
~ ~ ~
All in all, Georg felt pleased with how Katrin’s wake-up had gone so far. She was distressed; of course he’d expected that. He didn’t understand how she’d befriended the security guard Skandor Dusselhoff, but clearly the young man had been important to Katrin. More important than Georg had anticipated.
Georg bit his lip with uncertainty. Had he done a good job of showing the proper concern, the appropriate regret?
The tea kettle hissed and began to scream atop the small stove. Georg turned quickly and removed the kettle from the burner. He grabbed the basket of teas. English breakfast? Too obvious. Lapsang Souchong? Too weird. Peppermint. Yes. That was supposed to be soothing. Or Chamomile. Even better. Mutti had taught them some herb lore the year they’d lived on the cold, northern island where the food came labeled in boxes marked United Kingdom.
He allowed the tea to steep according to the directions on the box. Three minutes. Four minutes. Five minutes. He wasn’t in a hurry, exactly, to get back to Katrin. He’d heard some hideous sound come from her room before the tea kettle had begun to make noise. The more tears she got out before he returned, the better. Georg didn’t like tears.
Should he bring cookies? He looked through the pantry, searching for something that looked cookie-ish. He found a packet of Digestive Biscuits, labeled in English. They looked like cookies. He opened the packet and sampled one. A bit bland, but they had chocolate on one side. Didn’t girls like chocolate? Martina had liked it.
Georg put a few cookies on a plate and pulled the tea bag from the cup. Then he put cup and plate on a platter. That was nice. Katrin would see how nice he was being, for her sake.
He knocked on the door with two free fingers.
He heard sniffling. Heard Katrin take in a shuddering breath. Heard footsteps as she approached the door.
“Come in,” she said, holding the door wide.
Come in? As if this were her room?
He let it pass. She’d had a bad shock.
“It’s chamomile,” he said, placing the platter on the small table opposite the room’s small bed. “Come. Sit down.”
Katrin obeyed.
She placed her hands around the mug of tea, but she didn’t blow on it or try to drink from it.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“We’re in, well, you’ve been asleep for a little while,” said Georg.
“Where are we?” Katrin asked again.
“The island of Tenerife. It’s one of the Canary Islands.”
If Georg had expected anger or shock, he was disappointed. Katrin merely nodded her head as if it were perfectly understandable that she should fall asleep in San Francisco and wake up half way around the world. Or maybe she was simply indifferent.
“Off the African coast, you know,” said Georg, trying to sound knowledgeable. One look at Katrin’s disinterested face and he decided against regaling her with additional information such as the climate, the gross national product, or average rainfall.
“How many days have I been asleep?” asked Katrin, her eyes narrowing.
Oh, well, that was much better than “how many hours have I been out?”
“Well,” said Georg, “it took me awhile to get us safely settled, you know. There were arrangements to be made, and I had to get money to pay for everything, with Fritz dead and all—”
“How long?”
Katrin was annoyingly persistent. It was one of the qualities Georg had found exasperating when they were children. It hadn’t improved with age.
“As I was saying, there were all sorts of things to take care of, and I knew you would have this terrible news to deal with when you woke up, and I didn’t want to put you under unnecessary stress until I had found a safe place for us to live. But I have been preparing great things Katrin, important things. Wonderful things.” He hesitated before continuing. “But it has taken a long time.”
“Georg.” She stared at him. Her face was placid, but he could feel the subterranean rumblings just below the surface. “Just tell me.”
“A little over a year,” he said.
Katrin gasped.
16
VIOLETS
Sam sank beside her mother’s grave. It was cold outside, but not cold enough to make her want to ripple. Today was the last day of February. She hated February. It was a dark month, lightened only by these visits to the cemetery.
And the visits did lighten things for Sam. Normally, at least.
She traced her fingers along the dates that negotiated the time between the birth and death of Kathryn Elisabeth DuClos Ruiz. Tiny violets were pushing up to either side of the gravestone. Sam wondered who had planted them. Her mother’s love for wild violets had been well-known. One of her “Series: Violets” paintings hung in the Las Abuelitas Bakery Café. Whoever had planted the purple harbingers of spring, Sam was grateful.
“People remember you,” she said softly. A fresh tear traced its way down her face.
She thought she’d finished crying. But the truth was, you never really finished. The stretches between tears just got a little longer. She wiped the side of her face, recalling the hundred times her mother had done this for her.
“I remember you,” she whispered.
And then, slowly, tearfully, she told her mother about Will. About lunches spent sitting at the table for three with only two of them—Sam and Gwyn—because Will was eating his lunches in Mr. Polwen’s classroom, last Sam had heard.
�
�I love him, Mom,” murmured Sam. “Ever since the first time I saw him running laps at the track, I knew … I just knew he was special.”
She told her mother how Will had given her strength and hope, how he had brought her out of her years of being alone. How he had given her the opportunity to love someone again, with all her heart.
Sam sighed, looking at the violets again. They didn’t care that winter’s chill still haunted the air. They were brave. And hopeful.
“All the things Will taught me to be,” Sam whispered. “But I got scared, Mom. I was afraid that I might lose him.” Tears squeezed out of her tight-shut eyes. “I miss you so much. How could I bear it if … if….” She broke off, unable to complete the sentence. “It took me years to crawl out of that black space after you died,” murmured Sam. “I can’t go back there. I can’t. But I don’t know how I’m going to live without him. What am I supposed to do?”
She told her mother how she had tried talking to Will, but he’d made himself impossible to find. She’d sent text messages, but he didn’t respond.
“It’s been eight days now. Or nine.”
She’d lost track.
“Gwyn would know,” Sam said. “Gwyn loves telling everyone how long she’s been Ms. De Rochefort. She loves showing off her ring.” The thought made Sam smile. She looked down at her own left hand where she still wore the willow-leaf band Will had given her two years ago.
“Maybe I shouldn’t wear it anymore, Mom. I don’t know.”
Sam thought back to that night … the cold … the barely-there fall of snow … kissing in Sam’s Blazer, which Will had had to drive because Sam hadn’t been old enough to legally transport anyone outside her immediate family.
More tears. She swiped them away.
They’d been together two years. How many of her friends in high school could say that? Sam twisted the ring around her finger. She should probably give it back. No, that wasn’t what you did with sterling silver bands. She should probably stop wearing it, though. For a long minute, she held her hand out and gazed at the ring. It was still beautiful. She still loved it. She probably had a tan line from wearing it so long.
Perilous: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 7) Page 7