by A. K. Koonce
He tosses the scraps of material on the floor and gets started wiping blood from my hands. After a few minutes, I find that my shaky palms are no longer red. They are my own again. Normal again. I take a calming breath and let him finish bandaging my palm with a fresh towel. He turns to stand, but I grab his arm.
Confusion crosses his face, but he remains kneeling in front of me. I take the bloody rag from his hand and pick up the water bottle on the floor. Once the rag is drenched and dripping semi-clear water I bring it cautiously up to his neck. His intense eyes never leave my own as I press the cool rag to his skin. The blood is nearly dried, and I rub softly at the flecks. He closes his eyes as I wipe away the mess. I wipe away what I thought was going to happen to him. I wipe away the terrible thoughts that had burrowed into my mind. And I wipe away the idea of losing this hybrid who I now want to protect so badly simply because he needs our help.
I still don’t know what we are doing. What it is my mother intends for us to do to help him. I also no longer feel afraid of the secrets she keeps. Because whatever it is, I’ll do it. If it means saving him, I’ll do it.
He sits on his knees at my feet, his hands fisted on either side of my legs. I move my free hand to the side of his head to steady my work. I find him leaning into my palm, and, strangely, I also find my palm lowering from his thick tangle of hair to his jaw line and neck. He’s breathing steadily, eyes still closed. I finished cleaning off his neck a minute ago but I keep brushing the rag lazily against his skin as my other palm traces his jaw line.
I’m just starting to memorize the shape of his lips when the back door opens and I hear Ky’s metal leg hit the tile floor. The simple clicking noise is enough to snap me out of my trance. I stand from my seat. Forty-four’s hands are still on either side of my legs against the chair, surrounding me. His eyes are unfocused when they open, but he drops his hands and allows me to awkwardly step around him from where he is on the floor. My mother and Ky enter the room and look from where I stand nervously near the table, my heart pounding its way out of my chest and up my throat, to where Forty-four is kneeling in front of the now empty chair.
I give a quick smile and grab a flashlight out of a bag as I rush past them. “It’s been a lot of fun,” I say, a mixture of nervousness and sarcasm. “The whole day, as a matter of fact, but I’m going to bed.” My mother opens and then closes her mouth. “Good night,” I say over my shoulder as I scurry up the stairs in the next room.
***
The house is quiet, and there is even a cool breeze coming in from the open window as dawn creeps over the skyline. Not a sound can be heard, yet my mind refuses to relax. I’m tense with worry and uneasiness and, for the first time in my life, it is caused by my mother. She’s keeping something from me. I saw it all over her face several times today.
I should start school again tomorrow. What if I don’t finish my last week? What if Shaw finds us? What if I never see Ayden or my camp family again?
The what-ifs are piling up in my mind without answers. Answers that no one seems too keen on giving me lately. I can endure the lack of information, knowing we are helping Forty-four, but I can’t take the dishonesty that nags at my mind night and day. The agitation builds in my chest until I can’t take it anymore.
As quietly as possible, I slip from my bed and tiptoe to the door. It creaks, announcing me as I slowly open it. I pause and listen. I can hear my mother’s whispers downstairs. She is speaking in a hushed tone to Ky who, as always, can’t seem to get a word in.
I step quickly from my room and close the door behind me before hurriedly tiptoeing down the hall to the door next to mine, the room I heard him enter an hour ago. I knock softly and wait a moment, but he doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s not in this room. Maybe he’s asleep. Unsure of what to do, I quickly slip inside, closing the door and standing in front of it like I’m blocking a scared animal’s exit.
Forty-four is sitting up in the bed with an instrument across his lap. He strums against the wires of the instrument while twisting metal nobs at the top. The noise sounds terrible. He stops strumming and sets the wooden instrument down next to the bed.
It takes me a minute to realize he’s waiting for me to explain myself. His dark hair is disheveled, and brilliant gray eyes sparkle in the early morning sunlight. A few minutes pass, and I still haven’t said anything. I also haven’t looked away from the hard lines of his hard stomach. It doesn’t take long before a slow smile spreads across his lips, causing me to blush. It’s then that I realize I might be the scared animal.
“Sorry, I couldn’t sleep,” I say quietly.
He signs something slowly to me with only a few hand gestures, but I shake my head at him, wondering why he won’t speak to me now.
He clears his throat loudly, and a nervousness tingles over my body. What if my mother heard him and somehow knows I’m in here? Irrational fear lands like a brick in the pit of my stomach.
He swallows harshly. “I—’’ His voice is raspy and barely audible. “I stayed up talking with Charlotte.” He swallows again and clears his throat a second time. “Now my voice is hoarse from overuse. How ironic.”
He shakes his head as he pushes himself farther up in his bed and pats the mattress next to him. Heat flames my face and I look around the room, anywhere but at the arrogant smile that appears on his face.
The bed is small in the tiny room. Its mahogany headboard takes up the majority of the east wall and a little three-drawer dresser stands alone on the opposite wall. The nightstand next to him is dusty, but the leather-bound bible on top appears to have been wiped off.
His invitation leaves me unsure and uncertain of my every move. Walking with caution like I might break through the old wooden floor at any minute and land shamefully at my mother’s feet, I make my way to his bed and sit lightly on the edge, barely disrupting his covers.
He smirks down at me through my awkwardness and takes my hand in his. My palms instantly start to sweat and the air leaves my lungs at his small contact with me. I want to pull my hand back at his advance into my personal space, but I don’t move.
With my palm lying face up inside his large hand, he takes his fingers of his left hand and starts tracing against my palm. At first, it tickles, and I can’t help but laugh nervously. He stops his tracing, shakes his head, and tugs my hand until I look at him. He taps his finger a bit harder against my palm as if he wants me to pay attention. And then it dawns on me. He’s trying to speak to me and I’m over here laughing like an idiot.
“Sorry, try again. I’ll pay attention, I promise,” I whisper to him.
Do you want to talk? He writes slowly against my palm. His words are traced letter by letter against my palm. A slow but interesting choice of communication. His letters create a delicious tingling feeling against my skin that rolls up my arms and over my whole body, but I keep myself from laughing this time.
I take a breath while he keeps my hand held loosely in his. He’s waiting for my response. I’m afraid of asking my questions and getting lied to like I feel like my mother has been doing. My relationship with my mother that I used to cling to feels shaky and unstable now. I should be seeking her out for my questions, but I can’t watch her deception any longer. It hurts too much to know she’s hiding things from me.
I keep my eyes on his tattered blanket when I speak. “I feel very left out of the plan. I know something is going on, yet even my mother refuses to help me understand.” I pause and swallow, trying to find words to make me feel less alone. “It’s a childish feeling, and maybe it’s none of my business. Of course, I want to help you, but I hate the feeling of dishonesty. I don’t need all of the answers, I just need to know if it’s worth it,” I say in a rushing stream of words.
I take a chance by looking at his face to see if I really am as pathetic as I feel right now. He appears sad for me, however, more than that, he looks like he understands me. He starts to stroke his thumb against my palm before writing.
Ask me anythin
g.
Anything. I want to ask him everything. But I can’t. I know I should wait for my mother to tell me, if she even will tell me. I have to know some things.
I take a calming breath and slowly exhale. “Were they going to kill you at the compound?” It’s the simplest and most important question.
Eventually. Yes.
I nod trying to understand. I have no doubt that, with enough time, Shaw would murder the hybrid who threatened him in his own compound. The doctor’s end goal can only be extinction for a dwindling race that litters his facility.
“How did you escape?”
“Charlotte signed me out to reevaluate my sedatives.” He clears his throat and his raspy whisper makes me feel guilty for asking so many questions. “Instead of taking me to the infirmary, she hid me in a bathroom and pulled the fire alarm. While everyone exited the building, I slipped out the emergency exit at the back.”
It might have taken the day for Shaw to even realize Forty-four was missing. He had to notice my mother’s absence. I try to think through why my mother would risk so much for one hybrid, but nothing comes to mind. She would never risk my future for his.
“Are we helping you or are you helping us?” Perhaps my mother is in some sort of trouble at the compound. What am I missing? What is the big picture?
He shrugs, brushing his bare shoulder against mine, sending a shiver down my spine at our small skin to skin contact. He doesn’t appear to notice the exchange and continues writing against my palm again.
Both.
Hundreds of questions swarm my mind. I try to sort through the important ones. The ones that make or break the trust that’s starting to surface between us. I’m testing his honesty, but I need to test him. I need to trust him.
“What was that sword, and why was it in this house?”
He looks away from me. He studies the floral wallpaper like he’s thinking through his own mess of a mind.
He clears his throat and in a rough whisper he says. “It’s called a Crimson Sword. Something as old as time. Humans are not aware of its existence. The material it is made of is the only thing lethal to all creatures of all races. It was left here for me by… someone I trust.”
Guilt strums through me at hearing his raspy voice. Unfortunately for him, the guilty feeling isn’t enough to stop my rapid-fire questions. “I thought vampires had to be staked through the heart?”
A deep and low laugh escapes his lips. A smile pulls at my lips from the sound of his strange and hypnotic happiness.
A stake to the heart might kill anyone.
I can’t suppress the quiet laugh that bubbles up inside me. He’s different than I thought he would be. Not at all the misanthrope society described him to be.
There’s a short silence surrounding us. I try not to break it and relax into the stress-free world we just created. A world where things aren’t always so serious. But I can’t. As much as I try to ignore my other questions and to not press for more information, they push against my thoughts. I try not to bombard him with all the questions circling my mind. But one question stands out among hundreds.
I speak in the lowest whisper I can, just trying to force the words from my throat. Finally choosing blatant honesty in hopes of having it returned.
“Can I trust you?”
He looks up at me quickly, like I need to be sure of his answer. Instead of nodding or writing against my palm he tenses when he speaks.
“Yes,” he says before clearing his throat.
I lift my hand, and he watches me with intense eyes as I bring my hand to the light scar at his neck. It’s jagged but soft against my fingertips. It healed smoothly.
With his eyes closed, he takes my hand in his while I brush my thumb against his jaw. The imperfect scar is so strange and foreign on his warm, flawless skin.
“If it hurts this badly, why do you speak?” I ask in awe. Thinking back to every time he spoke to me with the chip in his throat.
I remove my hand from his neck, realizing how inappropriate it was for me to touch him for no reason. He picks up my palm and writes again.
I don’t usually.
His response leaves me quiet and unsure of what to say. How awful it must be to never voice your opinion or speak your feelings. My stomach drops at the thought of what it must be like. Of the pain he has suffered from basic human contact.
“That’s terrible.”
It could be worse.
After his words are written, he continues to trace circles into my palm with his thumb until I wonder if I should leave. I came to ask him questions about my mother, but now I want to stay to ask him questions about himself.
“I should go,” I say, moving to the edge of the bed to stand.
He tightens his hold on my hand and doesn’t let go, making me glance back at his pale gray eyes. He writes against my wrist, making me shiver.
Stay.
This small word tugs at my heart harder than the sad confessions he’s already admitted.
“I—I don’t think it would be appropriate,” I say politely.
My thoughts instantly drift to my mother standing just downstairs. How, during the silence, I can hear her speak through the old wooden floor.
I meant. I—
He pauses looking for words.
“I just want to get to know you. The real you. Not the you your mother portrays. Not the silent you your mother likes,” he says in a raspy tone before closing his eyes and swallowing hard.
His words make my stomach twist in pain and make me think about if anyone really sees the real me. I sit down without hesitation. I already know my mother tries to control everything, not in a cruel way, but in an overly-protective-mother sense. Something else pulls at my thoughts.
“Why do you want to know me?” I ask, my eyes never leaving his beautiful face.
He stops to think about his response. The luxury of not having a voice, I suppose, is never speaking thoughtlessly.
His lips part for a moment, before hesitantly replying. “Because you treat me like I’m human. Not like an animal to control or someone who deserves what he’s gotten but like someone who actually feels the pain of repression.”
He was repressed. I’m oppressed. In a way. Told what to do and who to spend my life with, but then having those plans pulled out from under me without explanation. I’ll help Forty-four as much as I can, because in a way, I wish I had someone to help me.
I think about his words, but I still feel uneasy and afraid of my next question. A question that never occurred to me before now.
“My unity partner went missing last year. His name was Micah Rixton. Do you know him?” My throat tightens with fear from what his response might be.
Confusion crosses his face, his brows creasing as he hesitates to answer me about my unity partner. With hesitation grows doubt, and I realize, no matter what his answer is, he has instilled doubt into the depths of my mind. It might always be there.
No.
I take a breath and attempt to swallow. I force myself to believe him. I’m not sure if I’m more relieved or anxious. Micah is still a mystery. One I may never know the answer to. I hope he’s safe, wherever he is.
“What’s your real name?” I ask, trying to avoid the lingering doubt. “I hate calling you Forty-four,” I say leaning back against his pillow.
He smirks down at me. Our shoulders touch lightly.
He spells letters into my palm. Letters that define him truly for who he is. Two words that make up him as a person.
Asher Xavier.
A strong name. A suiting name.
“Asher. Much better than Forty-four,” I say with a smile.
Say it again.
“Asher,” I say in an unsure breath. I’m in awe at his simple happiness. A wide smile appears as he closes his eyes and leans against the headboard.
“It’s been years since anyone has said my name. It’s never sounded so—heartbreaking and beautiful.”
I blush at his sad words.
I’m not sure if he’s flirting with me or the feeling of hearing his own name brought back memories of his life. If no one knows who you are, do you really exist?
You’re uncomfortable. Sorry. He smiles to himself and glances at me out of the corner of his eye before writing a finishing thought. Kind of.
“You didn’t. Really. I’m fine,” I say somewhat unconvincingly.
You don’t look fine.
He writes with a smile. A dimple forms with his arrogant smile, and my heart beats off course, unsure of its constant chore of beating within my chest.
“I should leave before my mother finds me,” I say so quietly I’m afraid he won’t hear me.
He does hear me, though, and nods slowly before pulling back the covers to scoot out of bed. He walks me to the door where his hand lingers on the knob.
I try to keep my eyes away from the hard lines of muscle that stretch over his abdomen and chest. The lines that flow over the sides of his ribs as well; lethal power sheathed beneath smooth skin. I look quickly to the floor when I realize how miserably I’m failing at not watching him.
“Goodnight, Fallon,” he says in a hoarse whisper.
His eyes are cast down and refuse to meet my own. He opens the door for me as quietly as possible. I’m not ready to leave, but I know I need to get back in bed before my mother discovers me missing and sends out a search party.
“Goodnight, Asher.” I say his name slowly, masking my confusion at his change in behavior.
He closes his eyes against the sound of his name like he’s trying to remember every syllable before he closes the door softly behind me.
Chapter Six
The Veil
For days we walk through the same scenery. The same trees with the same bark with the same dying leaves. We sleep on pallets in the dirt, taking shifts to keep watch, never lingering in one place for too long.
My mother still chooses to sign her words to Asher rather than speak openly in front of me. I’ve mostly ignored her to avoid basic conversation which would, of course, lead to more unanswered questions. A sinking feeling burrows into the pit of my stomach at the thought, but I continue walking to keep my mind off of my mother and the questions that are always circling my mind, like vultures drawn to the dead.