Avow

by Chelsea Fine

  He grasped her wrists to pull her hands off, but froze as her touch sank into him.

  She watched his eyes fall closed in peace and his chest exhale in comfort. She wanted to touch him forever and always bring him this much relief.

  “Do not make me leave you,” she whispered.

  His eyelids lifted in a heavy, sated way as he looked at her. For a moment, his resolve was gone and his hands, wrapped tightly around her wrists, loosened their grip and slowly eased up her forearms, his caress becoming more gentle the farther up her arms he felt.

  Soon it was only his fingers trailing up the inside of her arms…across her shoulders…along her collarbone…and then barely stroking the sides of her neck.

  Scarlet wanted to cry for how wonderful it felt to be near him—to be something other than rejected by him.

  But then her eyes burned and a soft blue glowed into the night.

  Tristan pulled his hands and eyes away from her. Shutting Scarlet inside the carriage, he barked, “Take her home, Jensen,” before walking back into his house without a second glance.

  Scarlet stared out the window, knowing Tristan was trying to keep her safe. Knowing he did the things he did out of fear and love.

  But all the knowledge in the world couldn’t keep the pain from her soul.

  CHAPTER 19

  Charleston 1798

  Tristan was a different man.

  The day after Scarlet had hunted him down, he had moved to a different location and kept a safer distance from her, but she’d became ill anyway and slowly started to die. For eight months, her eyes flashed on and off. Then the nosebleeds started.

  When he had felt her die inside of him, something snapped in his soul.

  He had not been able to save her. He had searched for weapons and resolved himself to death, but it hadn’t mattered. She had still died.

  After throwing knives into walls and slamming doors around his empty house, Tristan had finally surrendered to grief. And the guilt and sorrow he carried festered low in his chest, keeping him from any real sleep. It was a blackness that thickened with time, slowly inching its way around his soul, filling him with darkness.

  Drowning in darkness seemed a merciful fate.

  Tonight, he was walking in the seedier part of town where most men didn’t travel after dark. But most men were not immortal men and Tristan didn’t really give a damn anyway as he walked in the shadows of dangerous alleyways and buildings.

  “Gabriel.” A suspicious-looking fellow with a few missing teeth gripped his shoulder. “How long has it been? Nine, ten years?”

  Since there was no point in explaining to the stranger that he was, in fact, Gabriel’s twin brother—no one ever believed that anyway—Tristan said, “I’m not sure. A long time.”

  The stranger nodded. “You still betting high stakes in the lower games?”

  What the hell were lower games?

  “You know me,” Tristan said dryly, wishing the man would release his shoulder.

  “Then I have a tip for ya.” He leaned in, his breath horrid as he said, “There’s a new kind of fight under the Nine Club tonight. Password is “knuckles”. Tell ‘em Hank sent ya. I get a cut if you win.” He winked. “Nice seeing ya, ol’ pal.”

  And with that, the stranger was gone.

  Tristan knew he should ignore the man’s words and carry on with his mindless walking, but curiosity was a relentless bastard and Tristan’s feet took him to the Nine Club, where he told the man at the backdoor the password.

  He was led downstairs into a well-lit cellar where people were crowded around a dirt ring. Peering above the heads of the townsfolk, his eyes fell on two large men beating each other bloody in the center of the crowd.

  The spectators cheered and booed, held money up for a passing bookie, and drank themselves happy as they watched blood pour from the wounds of the fighters.

  He had heard of prizefighting in England but, being that it was illegal, had never seen a fight before. And he found the sport…fascinating.

  He watched with new eyes as the fighters hit, threw, and knocked one another around in the dirt circle. Blood, spit and sweat coated both bodies and the ground as the calls of the entertained crowd floated to the ceiling.

  Fighting for sport. Slamming fists and body parts. Pounding out aggression with a willing opponent. The darkness in his chest expanded and Tristan raised the corner of his mouth. Being beaten bloody sounded heavenly.

  CHAPTER 20

  Charleston 1801

  Gabriel sat in the dark, leaning back in a large chair with his feet propped up on the desk before him. He tapped his fingers and waited.

  Tristan appeared in the hallway and headed for the front door.

  “Where are you off to?” Gabriel stopped tapping his fingers.

  Tristan eyed Gabriel. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” He cocked his head to the side. “Very odd behavior for a…what is it you call yourself now? A gentleman?”

  Gabriel smiled. “Interesting how you always change the subject when I ask about your nightly whereabouts.”

  “Why do you care, brother? Have you no whores to play with tonight?”

  “Is that where you spend your time? Brothels?” Gabriel dropped his feet to the ground and leaned forward with a sharp smile. “No, of course not. Not Tristan. My righteous brother does not mar his time with the company of sinners.”

  “Except for you.”

  “Will you not tell me where it is you go dressed as,” Gabriel glanced Tristan over, taking in his loose, cut off pants and wider-than-fashionable shirt, “a pirate?”

  “Trust me, brother.” Tristan glanced at him with mischief in his eyes. “A pirate would not bode well where I go.” Without another word, he exited the house, leaving Gabriel in the dark.

  Rolling his eyes, Gabriel stood from the chair and grudgingly gathered his coat from the hallway.

  Lofty Tristan, he could deal with.

  Soft-hearted Tristan, he could tolerate.

  But dark, mysterious Tristan?

  Gabriel would have none of that.

  There was room for only one irreverent soul in the Archer family, and Gabriel had staked that claim long ago.

  He left out the front door, keeping to the shadows as he followed his brother.

  Through darkened streets, questionable alleyways, and a part of town Gabriel used to frequent but never thought Tristan would set foot in, he followed his brother until they reached an abandoned building.

  At least, it looked abandoned.

  Tristan slinked his way down an almost hidden set of stairs and Gabriel hovered nearby, watching as Tristan nodded to a doorman—who looked just as questionable, if not more so, than the alleyways they’d just walked through—and entered a door that opened to the sound of a crowd, light spilling onto the doorman before the door fell shut.

  What…the…hell?

  Gabriel debated for several minutes, not sure if he should follow after Tristan or let his brother be. Curiosity was the victor, as always.

  Slinking down the stairs as Tristan had, Gabriel approached the questionable doorman and kept his face as expressionless as possible.

  The doorman looked confused. “Archer?”

  Gabriel nodded. Sometimes, being a twin had its advantages.

  “But I just…you just...how…?”

  “I left out the back.” Gabriel hoped this was explanation enough and that there was, indeed, a “back” to whatever this place was.

  The doorman shrugged. “Alright. Best of luck tonight. I always put my money on you.”

  Gabriel nodded again as the doorman let him into a bright room filled with people, bookies, the smell of sweat, and the sound of breaking bones.

  Well, damn.

  Walking along the outskirts of the crowd and keeping in the shadows as much as possible, Gabriel moved toward the spectacle in the center of the room.

  A shirtless Tristan, blood running down his face and body, had his bare-knuckled fists raised befo
re a much larger man who was throwing punches in his direction. The larger man was far more beat up than Tristan and he was stumbling with injury and disorientation. Tristan blocked every blow the man served and, after a few minutes of watching the large man stomp unevenly from side to side, Tristan clocked him in the face.

  The man fell to the blood-splattered floor and the crowd cheered. Somewhere a bell chimed and Gabriel finally understood what he was watching. He didn’t believe it, but he understood it.

  He waited four more matches until the crowd thinned and people began to disperse, then he stood outside the stairwell, hidden in shadows, until a bloody Tristan emerged.

  Grabbing him by the nape, Gabriel threw his brother against the wall of the building. “Prizefighting? Are you crazy?”

  Caught off guard, Tristan swung at Gabriel’s face, pausing just before making contact as recognition set in.

  God, he was a mess. Blood everywhere. A swollen eye. Sweat matting his hair and chest.

  “Hello, Gabe.” Tristan smacked Gabriel’s hand off him and spit on the ground. “What brings you back to your old stomping grounds? I thought you were a changed man.”

  Gabriel ignored the comment, though it was true. Since Scarlet’s death, he had no desire to be the slobbering, self-hating, drunken gambler he’d been before. She had loved him. He now had something to live for.

  “I’ll ask again,” Gabriel said. “Are you insane?”

  “No. I’m well.” He smiled. Like a crazy person, he smiled. “I’m excellent, in fact. I’ve not lost a fight in many weeks.”

  “You are immortal. These are not fair fights, not real victories.”

  Tristan examined his knuckles, torn flesh slowly mending itself, then looked back up. “Now, don’t go spewing morality at me brother. You have a reputation to uphold. Whatever would the townspeople do if you were to become the ‘good’ brother? I’m sure chaos would ensue. You must hurry and find yourself some brandy and a painted woman and fix this morality nonsense so the world may be right again.”

  “I’m serious, Tristan. Prizefighting is illegal.” Gabriel suddenly felt like the grown-up between them and was not comfortable with his new role.

  “I know.” Tristan’s crazy smile was back.

  Who was this person?

  Tristan spit again. “Since when do you care about the law?”

  Since my brother went rogue, apparently.

  Gabriel shook his head. “It’s wrong to fight when you have an obvious advantage over your opponents—

  “My advantage is not all that great. Did you know,” Tristan looked at Gabriel with something akin to glee in his eyes, “that the more wounded immortals are, the slower they heal? All I have to do is break a few bones or cut myself up before a fight and I am almost as mortal as any opponent. I learned that from one of Nathaniel’s books. Helpful information in those wizarding bibles.”

  Gabriel blinked. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Gabriel rubbed his face, completely dumbfounded. “Explain this to me. Why are you participating in these fights?”

  “Because it feels good to hit something. It feels good to be hit.”

  Ah.

  This was punishment for Tristan. This was a way to hurt, and be hurt, in between Scarlet’s lives.

  “Don’t worry, Gabe,” Tristan spit again. “The fights are more equally matched than you think. I‘m not cheating. I feel the same pressure, the same pain, the same—“

  “Guilt?” he challenged. “Sadness?”

  Tristan’s cocky face sobered.

  Gabriel shook his head. “This doesn’t bring her back any faster. Or change what will happen when she returns.”

  Dangerous anger filled Tristan’s eyes as he lowered his voice. “Do not speak to me about Scarlet.”

  And then he was gone. Disappearing into the night with blood on his skin.

  CHAPTER 21

  Boston 1891

  Nathaniel clapped his hands together, the sound popping into the large townhouse he owned. “I call this meeting to session.”

  “There are only three of us, Nathaniel.” Gabriel sighed as he leaned back on the couch. “This is a discussion. Not a ‘meeting’.”

  After a century without luck in the South, they had decided to move to Boston, where Nathaniel could pursue a different cure. A medical cure.

  Tristan hated the crowds and noise, but he tolerated it, Gabriel assumed, because there were big fights in the city. Underground gambling ran rampant after dark and Tristan was always at the center of the mess. He was known to his audiences as Archer. He was known to Gabriel as dumbass.

  “Well, based on our last three-person discussion—the one where you two punched each other, broke my coffee table, and managed to put a hole in my wall,” Nathaniel pointed to the gaping hole in the drywall of his otherwise flawless room, “I’d say our ‘discussions’ need some order. So I’m calling it a meeting and this time we will all take turns speaking. Understand?”

  Their last discussion had been about how to take care of Scarlet when she came back to life, but had ended up being a throw down between Gabriel and Tristan because Tristan, bloody hell, Tristan was going off the deep end.

  He was prizefighting. Fine.

  He was collecting weapons like they were stamps. Also fine.

  But it was who Tristan had become on the inside that Gabriel couldn’t stand. Tristan was just plain surly; a dark man without a pinch of light inside him.

  Gabriel had let him stew and wallow and slowly spiral downward for a hundred years, and now it was time for Tristan to get it together and start helping.

  Tristan had announced he no longer believed the fountain existed, which was understandable based on their lack of locating the thing for hundreds of years, but to give up on saving Scarlet altogether? That was ludicrous.

  “So,” Nathaniel began. “When Scarlet comes back to life, we need to handle it differently. I don’t think it’s healthy for Tristan to remain far away from her for extended periods of time.”

  “It’s just pain,” Tristan said.

  “I don’t think it’s healthy.” Nathaniel over-enunciated each word. “So we need a new plan. Suggestions?”

  Gabriel said, “She can live with me like before and we’ll just keep her away from Tristan. Maybe he could live in my building so he’s not too close to her.”

  Tristan said, “Yes, except living that close to her means I’ll feel her.”

  Gabriel made a face. “So get over it.”

  Tristan scoffed. “Right.”

  He was such a baby about the whole feeling thing.

  Nathaniel looked at Tristan. “If you have to, move further away.”

  “It won’t work.” Tristan shook his head. “She could still find me.”

  “So then we’ll rationally explain to her to leave you alone.” Nathaniel shrugged.

  Tristan set his jaw. “I can assure you that won’t work. So I have a plan.”

  “Really.” Gabriel leaned forward on the coach and rested his elbows on his knees. “Enlighten us. Please.”

  “I’m going to be in Scarlet’s life this time. She’ll know where I am. She’ll see me.”

  Already, this was the worst plan ever.

  Tristan hesitated. “But my plan will keep her from touching me.”

  “So what is your plan?” Gabriel asked impatiently.

  “It’s a drastic plan that you don’t need the details to.”

  Gabriel said, “I’m against this plan.”

  “How can you guarantee she won’t touch you?” Nathaniel did not seem bothered by Tristan’s lack of information.

  Tristan pushed back from the wall. “Trust me. In her next life, Scarlet won’t want me at all.”

  Gabriel’s stomach churned at the tone of Tristan’s voice and, given Tristan’s dark attitude lately, the last thing he wanted to do was “trust” him.

  “Yeah. I don’t think so. Why don’t we just go wi
th my plan, where she lives with me and you stay the hell away from her?”

  “Because your plan has a million holes in it.”

  “And your plan isn’t a plan at all. It’s a vague almost-idea and I don’t trust you.”

  “Nathaniel.” Tristan looked at their silent friend. “Do you trust me?”

  Gabriel rolled his eyes. Sometime over the last hundred years, Tristan and Nathaniel had become the best of pals and, despite Tristan’s unfriendliness and nonstop sour moods, Nathaniel still liked the guy.

  Traitor.

  Nathaniel took a deep breath. “I trust you. But I also care about Scarlet so—“

  “She won’t die. At least, not because of me. I promise.”

  “Hell, no.” Gabriel started shaking his head.

  Tristan exhaled. “Don’t be an ass, Gabe. Just let me try my plan.”

  Gabriel hesitated. “Fine. What do you want us to do?”

  Tristan cracked his knuckles—knuckles that spent most every night swollen and split open in a bloody ring—and said, “I’ll let you know when she comes back to life.”

  ***************

  That night, Tristan slowly unwrapped his hands, his heart still racing from his fights earlier. All wins.

  It was in moments like these, where his adrenaline was high and his wounds were healing, that the guilt couldn’t find him. Something about the pounding of flesh, the ache of physical pain being inflicted by another man, made him feel redeemed.

  He stood in the alley, healing in the darkness so his opponents and fight conductors would not see. His immortal body was inconvenient in this sport—and in his life. He had yet to find a weapon that could permanently scar his skin, so he was no closer to saving Scarlet.

  He turned his head and spit out the blood that had accumulated in his mouth from the last chin jab he’d taken. That’s when he saw Alexandria sauntering over to him.

  He bit back a groan and returned to unwrapping his hands.