by Sara Preucil
In the chaos of their escape they had taken each other by the hand numerous times without a second thought, but now that the adrenaline was finally leaving her system, Emmy was hyperaware of the space—or lack thereof—between them. A shyness crept over her—specifically the part of her that was Emberly—while the Kenna side of her remembered the short shared time with Kai.
She looked at the tall, lean boy next to her: his tattooed arms, his pale blonde hair and angular face. How different he was from Kai, and yet so similar. She could feel the same calm, the same steadiness in his presence…the same electricity. The urge to reach out and take his hand was nearly overwhelming. What made her stop was the question of what he thought of her now. Under her porcelain skin and smaller stature, did he see the same girl that he had loved lifetimes ago? Was it possible that he felt the same way once he remembered? That absolutely no time had passed; that she may as well have just closed her eyes in that river and was now opening them only a moment later. Not to mention the few times they managed to find each other between now and then.
Almost as if he could sense her thinking of him, Dylan’s blue eyes flashed briefly in her direction before turning back to the road.
“You okay?” He asked.
“What do I call you now?” She blurted out the first question that came to mind. “Dylan, or Kai, or…”
The Jeep began to slow, and for a second, Emmy wondered if they were having engine problems, but Dylan just calmly steered it on to the shoulder and put it into park. He turned then, the full force of his deep blue eyes falling on her.
He pushed his platinum hair back, off his forehead. “Do you remember?” He asked, his dark eyebrows raised in a hopeful expression.
Emmy nodded. “I remember.”
A grin broke across his face, lighting up his features like the dawn; it was achingly beautiful. Emmy couldn’t help but smile in response.
He reached across the small space between them to cup Emmy’s face in his hands. Any doubt in regards to what he was feeling was completely erased the moment his lips touched hers. Austin had kissed Emmy plenty of times, and he was decently good, and those moments had stirred feelings of affection in her. But it was nothing compared to this. It was as though Kenna had been in the back of her mind all the while, biding her time, knowing what it actually was to be kissed. Her soul sang at his touch.
She reached up to touch his neck; under her palm she could feel his pulse hammering as she brushed the line of his jaw with her thumb.
Soon—too soon—he broke the kiss. But he didn’t pull away, instead he rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling in the inches between them.
“What should I call you?” Dylan asked, catching her hand between his.
Emmy thought about it. These ears, this body, were used to hearing and responding to the name Emberly. Anything else would seem alien.
“Emberly, or Emmy, I think.”
He nodded, his forehead moving against hers. “Dylan,” he answered in response to her question. They sat there for a beat longer before Dylan said with a sigh, “We need to keep going.”
He pulled away from her then, Emmy feeling the sudden distance keenly. He seemed to as well, because he reached across the center console and took her hand as he steered the Jeep back on to the freeway.
Chapter 27
Ten miles north, in the sprawling suburb above the tiny hamlet of Fairhaven, the rain pounded against the roof of a 1920s Victorian style home. Warm in her bed despite the storm outside, Tara stirred and rolled over.
Suddenly, she let out a gasp. Her eyes flew open, and she shot up, the covers falling into her lap. Sweat coated her skin; she wiped at her forehead with her hand as she forced her breathing to normalize.
It was just a dream, she thought, for the second night in a row. More like another nightmare.
She hugged her knees to her chest, remembering what she had just seen.
An obscured figure had lain at her feet, in a growing pool of their own blood. She had fallen to her knees into the muck of mud and blood, reaching for the figure. Cautiously, she felt for a pulse, but found none. With a sickening jolt, she realized that they were dead, and she had pulled her hands away, which were coated in the figure’s blood. A grief-stricken scream tore through her throat. The earth under her knees trembled, and the ground opened up beneath her. She fell, swallowed by the darkness.
Her breathing now relatively normal, Tara laid back down. She curled into a tight ball on her side, fighting against her trembling muscles.
It was just a dream.
Part Two
“Souls do not, then, return confusedly, nor by chance, into one and the same place, but each is dispatched into the condition which belongs to her.”
Kore Kosmou
Chapter 28
Ipswich, Massachusetts, 1995
A cold breeze stirred, pushing the heavy clouds across the dark sky, finally bringing the waning crescent moon into view. Its silver light dimly illuminated the cobblestone path as Gale trudged along, trying to avoid twisting an ankle on the many gnarled, breached roots. Dead leaves crunched loudly underfoot as he approached the old house. In the moonlight, his eyes caught the glint of a shiny plaque next to the front door, indicating the building’s historic registry.
This was it; his memory hadn’t failed him. He was back at the Isaac Goodale House.
Gale took a steadying breath and, instead of knocking on the front door, circled around to the back of one of the oldest houses in Massachusetts. He knew where he was going; he followed the path not by sight, but by memory. This time, however, he took the path out of free will, instead of being dragged along the cobblestones. His feet carried him to a set of cellar doors. There, he knocked four times.
Anxiously, he rocked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while he waited. The minutes ticked by as he stood, shivering in the chilly autumn night. He was almost ready to abandon his efforts, when one of the doors creaked open.
A man’s head, then shoulders, and finally torso appeared as he ascended the stairs from the cellar below. He was younger than Gale was expecting, somewhere in his mid-twenties, and projected an air of superiority that was almost comical, given that they were about the same age. But how could that be? This was him, surely.
Gale took in the boy’s white hair and gray eyes. The confidence, the hard lines around his eyes, the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth, they were all the same. It was as though Gale had been transported back in time.
“Yes?” He drawled, glancing over Gale with a look of great distaste. His voice was different, higher.
Oh. It dawned on Gale.
From within his jacket pocket, Gale fished out a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it over to the conceited boy. The boy glanced at it, raised a sharp eyebrow, then turned on his heel and began descending the stairs. “Well, come on!” He called over his shoulder at Gale, who hadn’t yet budged.
Slowly, Gale followed, stepping down into a candle-lit cellar that was furnished in the fashion of a comfortable lounge. Dusty books in large cases lined the walls, elaborate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and ornate, plush couches and chairs were placed around the room in little intimate groups. The boy headed into a corner of the room, where a man was hunched over a stack of papers.
“Father?”
“What is it, Jeremiah?” The man looked up, and Gale finally saw his face. He was older, a quarter of a century older, but there was no doubt that this was the man Gale had nearly mistaken his son for.
There was no forgetting the last face he saw before he died.
Jeremiah handed his father the wrinkled paper that Gale had offered. The older man smoothed it out against the table on which his papers lay, and glanced down at the symbol that Gale had scribbled. It was a simple design: one solid triangle atop of another inverted triangle whose edges peeked out from behind its sides. It was the very same symbol that had been branded into Gale’s skin the last time he was in this
house.
The man looked up from the paper, his piercing gaze examining Gale carefully. “Who are you?” He asked slowly, his voice huskier with age. “Why are you here?”
Gale crossed the room and sat down on one of the ornate, velvet chairs across from the man. He propped his dirty boots up on the table, and leaned back.
“The answer is a little more complicated than you’d think, Chancellor.” The old man’s white eyebrows raised as Gale addressed him by his title. Gale sighed. “But, basically, I’m here because I’m tired.” And as he admitted it, Gale felt the weight pressing down on his shoulders. The weight of existing both within and out of time, the weight of building a life and slowly losing loved ones just to be forced to repeat it all again. The weight of their memory.
The chancellor and his son shared a look.
“Answer my father. Who are you?” The white-haired boy demanded.
Gale looked into the face of the aging man. “What, you don’t recognize me? I suppose you wouldn’t. I don’t exactly look the same.” He held out his palms. “But you marked me once.” The skin of these hands were, of course, unmarked, but Gale could feel the searing pain of the blazing hot metal being pressed into the flesh of his palms like it was yesterday.
The old man’s gray eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Still don’t know?” Gale prodded. “I suppose that isn’t enough. Who knows how many of us you’ve tortured in the name of your precious order over the years? How about this?”
Gale puckered his lips and blew. The papers that were spread across the table all took flight, lifting into the air and swirling angrily around the three men like they were caught in a tornado.
The chancellor’s eyes widened in horror as he watched the papers fall down to the ground.
“Oh, relax,” Gale said. “I’m not here to hurt you. Like I said, I’m tired.”
“What do you want then?” The aging chancellor asked as his son swooped down to collect the scattered sheets of paper.
“A way out of the cycle. Your little purification rituals, as pompous and painful as they are, are actually quite ineffective.”
“What do you know about what we do?” The man’s grey eyes scanned the room as if they were being watched at this very moment.
Gale shook his head. “You aren’t listening. You see, I’ve been here before. You tried to kill me, but didn’t. Not really.” Gale held up his hands.
“I’ve rid this world of plenty of your kind,” the chancellor snarled.
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”
“Stop stalling and tell us what you’re on about.” Jeremiah moved to stand behind his father, his arms full of the untidy stack of papers.
“New body, new life, baby.” Gale smirked at the shocked look that crossed the boy’s face. He tapped the side of his head. “All the memories, though.”
There was a short pause in which Gale watched the truth slowly dawn on the cruel man sitting across from him. “Are you insinuating that your kind reincarnates?” The chancellor’s face twisted in disgust at the thought. Jeremiah, looking panicked, glanced between his father and Gale.
“Ding, ding!” Gale pointed a finger at the old man. “You guessed it.”
“How can this be?” Rubbing his temples, the aging chancellor leaned back into his chair.
“Father, he could be lying,” Jeremiah hissed, throwing Gale a fearful glance.
“Or, I could be telling the truth.” Gale crossed his arms over his chest, watching the shifting emotions play across the chancellor’s face. Denial, confusion, fear.
After a few moments in which the only sound in the cellar was that of fire crackling on many candle wicks, the old man spoke.
“If you are, in fact, telling the truth, what purpose are you hoping to serve by coming here and telling me?”
Gale smirked, swung his feet off the table back to the ground, and leaned forward in his set. He was so close now, so close to oblivion.
“I’m thinking we can help each other out.” His voice wavered and he hoped that the men couldn’t detect the desperation there. “Who’s to say that with the right tweaking, these little rituals of yours might actually be effective? And I’m offering myself up as your willing guinea pig.”
The chancellor appraised Gale with clear suspicion, but there was no denying that sadistic spark in his gray eyes. “If we were to experiment on you, and you…ah…perish…in the process. How will we know our work was successful?”
“Well,” Gale offered, “if in a couple of decades, we aren’t having this exact conversation, consider it a success.”
The old man smiled then, his expression switching from suspicion to calculation, and Gale knew he had convinced him.
“Jeremiah,” the chancellor rubbed his chin as he observed Gale, not bothering to glance at his son as he barked, “gather the Elders, we need to begin right away.”
“Excellent!” Gale clapped his hands together once. “Let’s get to work.”
Chapter 29
Kerry, Ireland, 1923
Liam, come inside!” Briana pulled her ten-year-old brother by the dingy collar of his shirt off their front step and into their home, shutting the door quickly behind him. Even though he put up a fight, the six years she had on him allowed her all the strength she needed to overpower him. “What were you thinking?” She scolded.
Carefully, Briana peeked around the yellowing cotton curtain that covered the small window by the door. Half a dozen soldiers from the National Army walked slowly past the small thatched houses scattered along the dirt road, their boots stamping in unison against the hard packed earth. As the soldiers drew closer to their home, Briana ducked away from the window.
“When will Da be home? Liam whined.
“I don’t know,” Briana answered. “Come on, let’s help Mam with dinner.” She led her reluctant brother across the small living space with its handcrafted wooden chairs positioned over a threadbare rug at the hearth of a modest fireplace, into the adjoining room, where their mother was peeling potatoes at the dining table.
“I heard the front door,” their mother said, wiping her hands on her thin apron and turning to her children. “Is your father home?” Their mother’s worry-lined face was still beautiful despite the evidence of hardship. Her fair, freckled skin and strawberry-blonde hair, now streaked gray, had been passed down to her daughter, and Briana hoped that others saw some of her mother’s beauty in her as well.
“No,” Briana replied, fetching her own second-hand apron where it waited draped over a rough wooden chair at their small dining table. “Not yet.” She tied it around her slim waist and, picking up a small potato, began to peel off its dirty skin.
“The meetings don’t usually run this long. If they aren’t careful, they’ll be caught.”
Briana pulled her attention away from her work to look at her mother. Her thin face was crumpled with worry as she absently made her way to the hearth to stir the contents of a large pot over the flames. Briana had no words of comfort; she was also worried. It had been months since their town had been taken by the pro-treaty National Army; it was a dangerous time for those who opposed the Free State. If the Regulars knew about the anti-treaty assemblies that her father helped organize, he would be arrested. At the very least.
She continued to peel the small pile of potatoes. The room fell silent, the only sounds in the small kitchen were the soft bubbling of stew at the hearth and the sharp chopping of a knife, as Liam had wondered over and decided to help chop the potatoes.
Then the front door opened.
Liam dropped his knife on the table with a clatter and ran out of the kitchen.
“Da!” Briana heard him greet their father.
Moments later, the tall, dark-haired frame of their father entered the small kitchen with Liam, the miniaturized image of him, in tow. The easy, broad grin that stretched across his weather-worn face disappeared the moment he caught sight of his wife’s expression.
“Come
on, Eileen, I’m not that late.”
Their mother huffed, picked up the knife that Liam had discarded, and began chopping the potatoes with vigor. Briana noticed that beneath the angry flurry of motion, her mother’s delicate hands were trembling slightly.
“Now love,” their father said, moving around the table and hugging his wife from behind, “work ended late at the farm, and it took a good while to bring all the lads to order. Not all of them have beautiful wives to return home to.” He gave her a squeeze.
“Niall, stop.” Despite her words, a smile played at the corner of her mouth, and it was clear that their father was forgiven. He pecked their mother on the cheek and then went to wash up.
That night, like most nights lately, dinner was a tense, quiet affair. It wasn’t that they were against talking to one another, but they were all listening. Listening for the sound of marching soldiers, listening for shouts or gunshots—the sounds that had accompanied the months of conflict after the National Army arrived by sea to claim the southwestern anti-treaty areas. Tonight, however, all was quiet.
“The lads have agreed to peace for the meantime, while we figure out what to do next.” Briana’s father explained, as though he could read her thoughts. He spoke of the scattered remains of the IRA soldiers as though they were still a functioning army instead of a group of men using guerrilla warfare and pretty inconsequential acts of sabotage.
“There is nothing to do next,” Briana’s mother spoke as she absently stirred the remaining chunks of stew around her bowl. “The Free State has all but won.”
“Free State, bah!” Niall’s hand slammed down on the table, making their bowls clatter against the wood. Liam looked up at his father, his eyes wide. “It wasn’t that long ago that these same men were fighting for Ireland’s independence!” He said for, what felt to Briana, like the thousandth time. “Now they’re just rolling over like a bunch of cowards!”