“This thing inside me is dangerous,” I said, anxious that something terrible could happen just by talking about it. “It’s already killed someone. I can’t risk it doing the same to anyone else.” I threw a look Patrick’s way because, despite him being a serious pain in my butt lately, I couldn’t live with myself if I killed him. “This is something I need to figure out on my own.”
Patrick looked at me as if I was as dangerous as a kitten. “No offense, but I can handle myself. And did you miss the fact you could also die in the process?”
I concentrated on the soccer game playing on the old school television behind the bar. “Well, that would take care of all our problems.”
“That is not a solution,” Hector said, resting his hand over mind. “That is a tragedy.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as the martyr type, Bryn,” Patrick said, staring through me. “You know, given what I know of your history and always putting others above yourself.” His eyes managed to hold more accusation in them than his tone.
“So help me, Patrick . . . ” Hector growled.
Patrick raised his hands. “Alright, alright. What is it with Immortals having no sense of humor? I must have overlooked that in the job description.”
Hector looked up at the ceiling, or maybe he was looking up for God—praying for patience. “I’ve had over two centuries of your sense of humor and I’m taking a vacation from it at present. An extended vacation,” he added, before twisting in his seat to face me.
“Miss Dawson, I can’t emphasize enough that, given we know so very little about your gift, there is an absolute chance you could die in the process of training it. Are you sure you don’t want to give it some thought before you agree to this?”
“I’m certain,” I said, looking Hector square in the eye. “But I’m not alright with Patrick assisting. I can’t risk his life in the process.”
“Patrick has already accepted this task and he is fully aware of the risks involved.” He glanced over at Patrick. “However, we believe you face the most risk. Possessing the kind of energy you must for such a gift to reside within you, we can’t overlook the possibility that you could just as easily kill yourself as you could someone else.”
“Hold up,” I said, raising my hands. “Are you saying I could kill myself without really knowing how? What, I’ll just explode or implode or . . . something-plode?”
“I’m not sure of anything, but I have a theory, and please forgive the comparison,”—Hector shifted in his seat—“but your gift could very much turn you into a kind of black hole.”
“An empty, vast hole sucking the light and life out of everything that comes within a thousand mile proximity . . .” Patrick said, rubbing his chin. “That doesn’t sound like Bryn at all.”
Keeping my face expressionless and my upper half frozen, I reached my leg under the table, smashing down on his foot. The smile was wiped off his face faster than he could look to Hector for some support.
“Thank you, Bryn,” Hector said, winking one so subtle I wasn’t sure it was one. “I owe you for that.”
“It’s nice to see you two have become such good friends,” Patrick said, inspecting his foot. “The third wheel will leave you two B.F.F.’s alone.” He moved to stand up, stopped by Hector’s hand pushing his shoulder back down into his seat.
“You stay,” he instructed, rising from his seat. “I’ll go. My part in this is done. The rest is up to you two.” He gripped Patrick’s shoulder in passing. “I have faith in you.”
“Completely misplaced,” Patrick grunted. “Where are you going?” he called out to Hector as he weaved his way towards the exit.
“Seeing about that vacation,” he called back, before ducking through the door.
“Seeing about that vacation,” Patrick mimicked, making a face. “Now he decides to have a sense of humor.”
I sighed. Hector gone, I had no one to distract myself from Patrick with. There was nothing comfortable about sitting across from a man that straight out hated your guts because you’d torn out his brother’s . . . heart first. With Hector demanding Patrick and I behave, I wasn’t sure if this would make things harder or easier.
As the silence dragged on—something that had never occurred when I’d been in Patrick’s presence—and his plastered on smile aimed at me continued, I knew it would only make things worse. I’d take a verbal pistol-whip from Patrick any day over this grinning male version of a Stepford Wife in front of me.
“So, now what?” I asked, shifting in my seat.
Patrick shrugged, the smile falling. “We see what we’re made of. If we’re up to the task.”
“O-kay,” I said, “so in non-philosophical terms, what’s our plan?”
“We’re going to be busting our butts everyday for most of the day,” he said, leaning forward. The overhead light illuminated his eyes, making me focus on nothing but them and suddenly, it was William staring back at me.
I couldn’t look away fast enough.
“That means no more snow-bumming it with cowboy until the job’s done. Besides, last time I saw him, he wasn’t looking so good. You need to let that boy rest from time to time, Bryn. He isn’t Immortal, you know. He can’t play footsie with you twenty-four-seven.”
A proverbial light bulb went off and I had an urge—that I thankfully repressed—to kiss Patrick square on the lips. I felt as if I’d just had a miracle fed-exed to me.
“He’s dying.” I swallowed, trying not to sound like I was begging. “He doesn’t have much longer. He tries to disguise it, but he could go any day.” I stuck my tongue into my cheek, trying to keep my eyes from welling.
“There’s this great twentieth century invention called a hospital,” Patrick said, annunciating every word. “Take him to one.”
I shook my head. “He won’t go. Besides, there’s nothing they can do but delay the inevitable.”
Patrick took a long drink, wiping his mouth as he set the glass down. “And this concerns me how?”
I couldn’t believe I was going to say it, not thinking of the repercussions, but I couldn’t overlook the miracle that had been given to me. “Would you petition the Council to change him?” I asked, gulping. “Ask them to make him an Immortal.”
Patrick spewed root beer from his mouth. “You’ve got some serious balls asking me for that. Me of all people!” he shouted, his eye blazing. “Him dying would serve you both right. Neither of you deserve anything better. Not after making a fool of a good man.”
“I know I’ve done horrible things,” I said, playing origami with the napkin in front of me, ignoring the eyes turned our way from Patrick’s verbal explosion. “To so many people. I’m not asking this for me, I’m asking it for Paul. He’s a good man too, Patrick. He doesn’t deserve this.” I knew I was begging, but I didn’t care. “Please, Patrick. Please.”
His knuckles were blanching white. “In case I didn’t make myself clear,” he said, his voice shaking, “let me do a better job of that. Hell to-the No.”
I felt anger stirring. Now he was just being immature. I took a deep breath, hoping I’d put together my counter-attack as logically and unemotionally as I was capable.
“Let’s set aside the fact that you are a Guardian”—I looked at him pointedly—“and that you’re charged with preserving Mortal lives. Let’s not factor that into this because it’s not like that should be your number one priority or anything,” I said, hoping the sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “You know, given William’s involvement in this whole situation, he could end up having a foretelling of Paul’s death.” Just talking about him singed my throat. “Do you really want William to be the one to take this up the ladder when you can save him from that?”
Now to match his shaking voice, his hands were too. “Don’t you dare pretend to be asking for this for William’s sake. Don’t you dare act like you care about my brother,” Patrick said, his jaw set. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’d stoop to this new level of low to get what you want, but I am. You never cease to amaze me, Bryn,” he said, shaking his head. “And I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”
As if I could have thought he did. “I know this will likely fall on deaf ears,” I began, unsure if he was capable of hearing me in his state, “but I need to say this to you. I know I hurt William. I know I’m the worst kind of creature for doing it, too.” I stopped and took another breath. I was losing the battle of remaining unemotional. “I also know that I didn’t deserve him then and there was nothing I could ever do to change that.”
“Damn straight,” he said through his teeth.
“But despite everything, he’s found someone else. Someone he can live the rest of his days with in peace,” I whispered, tasting bitterness on the tip of my tongue. “He’s moved on, that’s all I wanted for him when I left. We should too.”
“Yeah, well, you first,” Patrick said, gulping down the last of his root beer. “I’m quite content to torture you every chance I get. And yeah, William has moved on, pretty much erasing you from his life.”
A spear through my chest would have felt like a gentle tap compared to what I felt. “So let’s not do anything that would change that,” I said, sounding as weak as I felt. “Will you petition the Council on Paul’s behalf?”
“Fine,” he said, sliding into William’s jacket, a tangible example of the torture he wanted to carry out. “I’ll do it. But don’t think for one second I’m doing this for you.” He slid out of the booth and slanted away from me. “I’m doing this for my brother.”
“Me too,” I whispered.
Patrick laughed darkly. “There’s that martyr again,” he said, nodding at the waitress smiling at him. “Be ready to go first thing in the morning. Meet me at the greenhouse.” He marched away from me, ignoring the waitress motioning him over. He stopped. “Oh, and Bryn?” he called out over his shoulder. “Be ready for a serious butt kicking.”
I flashed him a thumbs-up, but he wasn’t looking, before sliding down in my seat. Nothing like the promise of taking a serious beating to get one excited about rolling out of bed in the morning.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EXPERIMENT
So I didn’t roll out of bed the next morning. I bolted from it.
“Bryn.” Paul’s voice was no more than a ragged whisper, but it went off like a fire alarm in my ears.
I was throwing his bedroom door open before his mouth had closed around my name.
“Oh my gosh, Paul,” I whispered, frozen in place. It seemed impossible he could have taken such a turn for the worse in a mere eight hours since I’d last seen him.