“You A-hole!” I shouted, punching my fists into Paul’s chest. “Get off of me and do me a favor, don’t ever touch me again.”
His eyebrows pinched together, like he couldn’t understand what I’d just said or why I’d said it. I may have been the first girl to turn a fire hose on Paul Lowe, but I wouldn’t be the last if he continued to make such miscalculated, brazen shows of affection.
I flipped over and army crawled away from him, needing a football field length of distance in case I couldn’t control myself from slapping him when I finally got these darn restraints off.
“She’s aliiiiiiive!” Patrick’s voice burst through the trees, his arm beckoning the sky in a Mary Shelly kind of way. He jogged towards me, still shirtless and nearly pantless. It looked like he’d been attacked by a rabid pack of werewolves. “Hey, Immortal handcuffs, sweet. I haven’t seen any of this stuff since we high-tailed it out of Newburg.”
I rolled over and sat up, not forgetting to keep my glare aimed at Paul where he still crouched shock-faced a way’s back. “You know how to get them off?”
“I might,” he said, penning his index finger over his chin. “But what are you going to give me in exchange?”
Why did I find myself surrounding by two more-boys-than-men, acting like they’d just fought to win a potato-sack race? This was why women were going to rule the world . . . by the looks of it, one day very soon.
“What do you want?” I asked, trying to control my voice.
He popped into a crouch beside me, sliding his neck side-to-side. “What you got to give . . .”—his eyebrows danced and he wet his lips—“that I want?”
I shoved him onto his backside before coming to a stand. I towered over him, the constraints over my wrists bursting through my skin again from the involuntary flexing of my muscles. “Trust me, you don’t want to go there with me right now. Ask him,” I hollered down where Paul was, “if you’d like further explanation.”
“My sense of teasing is completely lost on you,” Patrick said, hoisting himself back up. “It’s a shame, too. Most people tell me my sense of humor is my best quality, only outdone by my otherworldly good looks.”
“I’m surrounded by morons,” I muttered, making certain both the accused in question could hear me, before I began hopping away from them. I was positive I looked like a psychotic Easter bunny terrorizing the woods.
“Bryn?” a deep voice said, breaking into an amused chuckle.
“Hey, Hector,” I said, ceasing my hopping. Had I seen him at the grocery store, I would have never guessed he’d just battled an army of Immortals that outnumbered him six to one. There was barely a smudge of dirt to be found on him. “I know how ridiculous I look,” I offered preemptively, “but can you please just get these things off of me?” I held my wrists out for him.
“I think for the first time in your case,”—he reached around into his back pocket—“I’ve got something I can fix easily for you.” He pulled out a silver set of nail clippers . . . not exactly what I’d been expecting. A machete, chain-saw, and the jaws-of-life were more what I had in mind.
“This stuff if the toughest weak material in the free world.” He clipped the wire around my wrists first; it tangled free instantly. He’d just freed my ankles when the moron twins showed up.
“So you made it out alive,” Hector said, standing. “Did everyone else?” he asked it so evenly I knew he wasn’t just referring to Paul and Patrick—he was wondering it I’d offed any of John’s men.
“I left everyone alive,” I said darkly. “But I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.”
“It’s a good thing. Trust me,” he said immediately. “Death might be the end of it for the person that passes, but it haunts the one who brought it on forever.” His face went blank—transported to another time, I guessed—a time when death had been his life.
“You caught our runaway bunny,” Patrick hollered, smirking at me as he wound through the trees.
“Bite me,” I said, flashing my freed wrists. “Next time you find yourself handcuffed, here’s a tip, don’t come looking for my help.”
He tilted a mischievous brow that was so masterful it made me long for William. “What if you’re the one doing the handcuffing?”
“You remember that extended vacation I mentioned,” Hector interjected, as I worked at keeping my tongue between my teeth. “I’m still on it.”
I extended my appreciation to Hector with my eyes. “Where’s everyone? Are they alright?” I looked over Hector’s shoulder absently.
“Everyone’s fine. They’re cleaning up the mess. Thankfully, smoldering ashes and uprooted trees clean up easier than bodies.”
I swallowed. “Everyone’s back there?” I asked, trying not to sound hopeful.
Hector got my gist. “I passed William on my way here and he had an urgent mission he had to get back to,” he said, not able to look me in the eyes.
“I wasn’t aware we were calling getting back to a girl a mission now,” Patrick said, “but hey, works for me. I need to get me more missions like that.”
Hector shot Patrick a look, one of warning or confusion, I wasn’t sure, but it did wipe the smile from his mouth.
“I’ll go help,” I said, my mind flashing back to William’s expression when he’d seen Paul and me. I glanced up at the night sky and in the canvas of a star clustered night, one flashed at me, as bright and beckoning as the sunrise.
Hector gripped my arm. “I’m afraid you’re on the first plane out of here,” he commanded, as if he was delivering an edict at the seat of the Council table. “John’s ego doesn’t tolerate defeat, so we can expect them back. Soon. And if you thought they brought an army this time, just wait.” His eyes drifted behind me where I could hear Paul making his way towards us. His steps were hesitant—so he wasn’t completely oblivious. “And the only way we can protect you is from Montana where even someone as arrogant as John would think twice about ordering an attack.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “Yeah, that theory didn’t work out so well for Bryn and me a while back.”
Hector grinned without emotion. “We weren’t expecting them then. We are now. The element of surprise is gone. John may be brazen, but he isn’t stupid.” He looked at me with feigned reassurance. “You’ll be safe.”
“Thanks for those warm fuzzies,” I said, “but I don’t really care a whole lot about my safety right now. You’ve all risked enough for me and maybe it’s time you start thinking about your own safety. I should just hand myself over to John and we can be finished with this business.” The idea was appealing in so many ways, especially after experiencing the way William had just looked at me. Despite not knowing if it had been anger or disappointment or something in-between on his face, one thing was clear; it was utterly void of any fondness.
“I hate to make our concern for your safety seem anything but chivalrous—”
“But you’re going to.”
Hector shot a look at Patrick and continued, “But we wouldn’t put it past John to conceive of some way to extract whatever is inside of you and turn it into some bottled form of weaponry.”
“You’re saying I’d essentially be the source code for John’s own Immortal version of a weapon of mass destruction?” I’d never allowed that idea to enter my mind, but it should have. I knew John was capable of worse.
“Precisely,” Hector said, looking relieved he didn’t have to explain any further, “and I do apologize that this brings your mission of being out on your own to an end, but we cannot risk your gift potentially being manufactured to be bought and sold by the highest bidder.”
“So the possibilities are endless,” I muttered, my prior knowledge of me being able to kill anyone at the snap of a finger somehow seeming brighter given the recent revelations. “So why go through all this trouble?” I crossed my arms, attempting to sound strong. “Why doesn’t the Council just take me out of the equation? That’s the safest alternative we’ve got . . . the best alte
rnative.”
“When do we sign the petition?” Patrick asked, silenced by either Paul or Hector’s glare.
“That’s very noble of you, but there are several reasons why that is nowhere near the best alternative.”
“I’m sure they’re not better than the reasons to end me.” It was surprisingly easy talking about my death, like discussing the barometric pressure.
“Other than death never being a solution to any problem”—I was taller than him, but Hector had an uncanny way of looking down at you no matter the height difference—“and that we are Guardians—tasked with preserving both Mortal and Immortal life—I highly doubt any of us would be left standing if we did in fact agree to kill you.”
“Oh, that,” I said, remembering what I’d done to the last Council who’d been intent on my destruction. “I’m getting a better grip on that, really, and—”
“You’re not the one I’m afraid of,” Hector said, looking at me in such a way I knew there was something I was meant to pick up on between the lines.
Patrick stepped forward abruptly. “Let’s put a kibosh on that train of thought, Hector. Anyways, we’ve got some work to do and you’re right, Bryn needs to get back to Montana . . . yesterday.”
“You’re right, explanations can be saved for later. Our first priority is getting Bryn home.” The word wrapped around me like a cozy blanket. Home, the place I never thought I’d see again, but would it still be home without William? I knew from experience after I’d returned to the house I’d grown up in after my parents had died, it wouldn’t. Home wasn’t a place, home was where those you loved were.
“Exactly,” Patrick agreed.
“That’s why you’re going to be escorting her back,” Hector said, drawing out each word.
Patrick’s expression fell. “Super. I’ve been downgraded to personal security guard. I better start stockpiling polyester suits and getting my hair done at SuperCuts now.”
“Glad to see you’re so eager for the mission. Take the other one with you.” Hector nodded at Paul, not looking pleased he was on the other side of Mortality. “We’ve got more than one mess to clean up it appears.”
“Yeah, well you can thank my brother for that one.”
Hector grinned before heading back in the direction of the chalet, or at least where it had been before it had been reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble. “It seems we’ve had a lot to ‘thank’ him for lately.”
Paul smirked at Hector’s back. “Yeah, well you know the problem with chosen ones. They get a little defiant after decades of people telling them what they can and can’t do . . .”
“Who they can and can’t love,” Hector added in the distance.
“We don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Patrick said, more to himself than Hector.
“I’m not so sure about that, old friend.” Hector’s voice carried in the breeze, oddly filling me with a hope that had depleted a continent back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SWEET HOME MONTANA
The only thing that was more awkward than the silent ten hour flight back to Montana was the drive home from the airport. I didn’t know silence could be that loud and I certainly never thought I’d see the day where both Patrick and Paul—talkers to a flaw—could keep their mouths sealed shut for the better part of a day.
But alas, miracles do happen.
I knew Paul and I would have to talk eventually—to bridge the topic of him assaulting me with his lips—but I was going to let some time pass in hopes I would cool down and it would give him time to think about the lunacy of his actions.
Patrick and I . . . well, this was our relationship M.O.—beating each other down with silence until one of us broke and then we’d get along for all of two seconds before serving up our next dose of silent treatment.
“Hang out here for awhile,” Patrick ordered, popping the silence bubble, as we pulled into Joseph and Cora’s driveway. “Don’t leave, stay put. I’m going to get cowboy situated back at the main house and then I’ll be back. You think you can handle that?” he asked, elbow propped over the steering wheel of Charles’ refurbished ’72 F-150. I took a full-length look at him, only able to stifle my laughter because I’d had twelve hours of practice.
Adorned in nothing but a soot-streaked pair of boxers back in Munich, we’d been forced to stop at the first open store we came across on our way to the airport. It was a ma-and-pop gas station that doubled as a souvenir store. A hokey, over-the-top, souvenir store.
Since the Germans adhered to the same no-shirt, no shoes, no service policy as we Americans did, I’d been tasked with finding him an outfit since he was sure he’d end up looking like a frat boy if Paul picked him out something to wear. They didn’t carry Patrick’s preferred designer-label digs and, taking my payback however I could get it, I picked out a stunning pair of suede shorts that were short for a teenage girl, a t-shirt depicting an ample female bust in a tiny bikini top striped with the colors of the German flag, and a pair of clogs—two sizes too small—to finish off the masterpiece.
Perhaps my outfit selection was the main reason for his silent treatment, but it was so worth it to watch every head turn and hear the rumble of laughter as we walked through the airport.
“Stay here,” I repeated, offering a lazy salute as I hopped out of the cab. “I think I can manage that.”
It didn’t look like he really believed me, but he pounded the gas, slamming the passenger door shut on me, as he left behind a cloud of acceleration-induced dirt and gravel.
Paul didn’t even look back. He was more dejected than I thought he would be. The time had done wonders on my anger, but had only heightened the awkwardness between us. Judging from his demeanor, we’d have to have that talk sooner rather than later.
It will be alright, I could do this, I encouraged myself. Like ripping off a bandaid . . . Paul, I don’t feel that way for you, and oh yeah, by the way, I never will. Ouch! Yowza! But the sharp pain would disappear as quickly as it’d appeared. I could do that; tough conversations had become my specialty.
I watched the dust-trail settle before turning to go inside, letting the Montana air make its way back into my system. I was home, if in only the sense of where I felt I belonged, but I also knew, by everyone else’s standards, I didn’t belong here anymore. Another woman would call this home, it wasn’t mine to claim anymore.
I climbed the wooden steps, plucking the key from its hiding spot—underneath the doormat. You would have thought Immortals were more original than that.
The house smelled the same, lavender with a hint of sage, and looked the same—right down to the offensive chair in the living room. I’d left this place, alone and feeling powerless against myself, and I was returning as an Immortal who was well on her way to mastering her gift. The alone part hadn’t changed any and never would. I’d left to protect him and he’d been in nothing but danger trying to protect me and now I was back, in control, and he was gone—in every sense of the word.
The portrait hanging on the stairwell—my favorite—stopped me as it had every time before. It was taken at Pacific City about fifty years back. In it were four brothers, arms slung over bare shoulders, damp haired, and heads tossed back from the laughs coming from their mouths. Only one pair of eyes was opened and staring straight into the camera, straight at me. They were William’s and he’d told me an instant before Cora snapped the picture, he’d been overcome with a vision.
A vision of me. It seemed too much the thing of make believe, but he assured me, when that camera flashed, cementing this moment in time, I was the only thing that flashed in front of him.
I’d stood in front of this photo while he’d been gone, staring into his eyes, knowing he was out there in the great beyond. I liked to pretend he was thinking about me and if I looked at it long enough, I could almost hear the thoughts in his mind: where are you, I’m waiting for you, come find me. The emotion in his eyes was that strong.
The thing about photos, tho
ugh, was that they didn’t change like minds do. I might have been all he wanted at that moment fifty years ago, but his face would never form around that expression of fondness again in my presence.
I couldn’t stare at it any longer. I took the stairs three at a time, ducking into the bathroom at the end of the hall, hoping I could forget the tears winding down my face and the person who’d created them if I turned the shower on full blast.
I was better, at least hygienically, after the scalding hot shower. The sun had been gone awhile when I decided to leave my sentinel from Joseph’s favorite chair, trying to conjure back the last time I’d been in it. Patrick wasn’t hurrying to get back to me and I’m sure it wasn’t unintentional. I wandered around the back of the house, trying to convince myself it wasn’t on purpose, that I wasn’t going to return to the home that had been nothing but a frame and a dream last time I’d been there. Just a look, a quick look, I told myself. I was interested in seeing if any more had been completed, that was it, nothing more.
However, had someone hooked me up to a lie detector, the needles would have been scratching away like mad.
Having made my decision, I was in a hurry to get there, before the reasonable piece of me turned my nosey little self around. I tore through the meandering fields, passing a herd of running deer like they were standing still. I roared to a stop the instant I broke through the tree-line into the oval-shaped open field.
The house was finished. All it needed was the glow of light streaming from the windows to pronounce it a home. I had a Miracle on 34th Street moment. It was like someone had known exactly the house I wanted—as if they’d extracted the plans from my head—and crafted it detail to detail to exact specification.
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