“How are you feeling?” he asked, moving his attention to me. “A little worse for the wear?”
Certain he was alright, I took an introspective moment, regretting it immediately. I winced, ringing an arm around my stomach, and crashed back down on the sofa.
“That bad, huh?” he said, a hint of an apology in his voice. “I shouldn’t have held on for so long, but I was so certain that this would work.”
“Are you sure this little idea of yours wasn’t some twisted plan to get a little payback in?” I asked, trying not to move anything but my mouth. Everything else was tingling in that fresh fry-pan burn kind of way.
He grinned too angelically to be innocent. “I’ll never tell,” he said, ruffling my hair, which felt more like he was tearing out every strand from the root. I gritted my teeth.
“You look pretty bad off. You want me to find you a Tylenol or something?” he asked.
“You find me a magic pill that cures whatever I’ve got and I’ll take that. Actually, I’ll take two, just to be safe,” I said, looking over at him. To say I was relieved Patrick was alright was obvious, but it went beyond that. It almost felt like there was some newfound confidence, or assurance, growing from the knowledge I’d controlled my gift, although I had no idea how I’d done it.
“That would make my job far too easy and I love a challenge,” he said, repositioning his watch. “Why take the easy route when the hard one is so much more fun?”
Instead of it dulling as pain does with the passing of time, it suddenly spiked. The muscles in my neck tightened. “Are you sure you don’t possess a gift similar to mine?”
“I suppose we would have found out if I held on any longer . . . but no, I’m quite certain the universe couldn’t handle more than one being in existence that’s a walking, talking grim reaper.” I managed something of a glare at him. “Besides, that would ruin my reputation with the ladies and the world just isn’t that cruel.”
“So what’s Plan B?” I asked, looking at him from the side.
“It’s circling around up here,” he said, tapping his head. “Genius can’t be rushed. You think Einstein would have come up with relativity if he had someone breathing down his neck tapping their watch?”
“Yeah, well I don’t remember anyone going to Einstein and asking him to come up with a solution to death,” I said, deciding I’d try sitting up again. “So hurry it up, Einstein.”
He glanced at his watch. “At present, I’ve got to hurry it up to my tee time, otherwise they’re going to start without me.”
I grimaced my way to a seated position. “Who are you playing with?”
“My brothers,” he said over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen. I heard him retrieve a glass from one of the cabinets. “William’s finally back and since we can’t get away to Pacific City, we figured we’d all surf the fairways to kill some time.”
I gripped the sofa cushions. I was jealous that Patrick would be spending the afternoon with William while I was halfway around the world waiting for my friend to die. “Why do you say finally? I thought you said he’s been home for awhile now.”
The water turned off and he was silent. I waited, long enough I was getting ready to call out to him to see if he’d suddenly decided to teleport himself to his golf game without saying goodbye.
“Ah, you know how it is,” he said lightly, coming back into the room with a glass of water in hand. “William can be so humdrum to be around it can seem like forever when he is home.” He handed me the water, like it was a peace-offering for pulling the life out of me. I took it, raising a brow at him. “Just teasing, you know how much I look up to William, but he can be a bit of a downer to be around. Especially lately.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, taking a long sip. “Is he alright?”
“Oh yeah,” Patrick answered, a little too enthusiastically to be genuine. “Never been better.”
I tried not to show my hurt. “I didn’t know William golfed,” I said, not able to picture someone like him mixing in with balding yuppies dressed in argyle sweater-vests.
“He doesn’t. You wanted to know if there was anything he wasn’t good at . . . well, golf would be it.” He chuckled, his eyes somewhere else. “He looks like a newborn giraffe when he’s putting— wobbling legs, neck straining for the sky. If there’s something I love seeing, it’s my saint of an older brother fumbling with a nine iron.”
I visualized it; William flustered on the golf course, throwing around his idea of cursing under his breath. It made me smile. “Then why are you planning on torturing him with eighteen holes if this is supposed to be some kind of welcome home shin-dig?”
He shrugged. “As a distraction. You can only play so many games of chess or pound so many nails into two by fours until you want to bang your own head with the hammer.”
I took another sip of water. “What are you trying to distract him from?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to know. If he needed distraction from getting into a certain kind of trouble with the new girl, as we’d gotten so close to, I certainly didn’t want to hear about it.
“From his life,” he mumbled, before drawing his lips into a tight line.
“What?” I asked, waiting for more.
His eyes stared hard into mine. “Why do you care so much? William’s life isn’t your concern anymore, so quit pretending that you care.”
My mouth snapped open, ready to argue back—if only he knew how much I still cared, how I would always care—but clamped it shut in time. Knowing I was one snide comment away from telling Patrick everything, I changed the subject. “Did you talk with the Council about Paul yet?”
He rolled his eyes. “Since I’ve had a whole twenty-four hours since you asked me . . . it’s not like they’re some ticket window you can go up to and pull a ticket-stub from to wait your turn. There are procedures, protocols, for requesting and being granted a meeting with the Council. I know you might think it’s an everyday sort of thing the way William hounded them to grant you guys a Betrothal”—he eyed me with accusation—“but it is kind of a rare thing. Just for your reference.”
“Are you done?” I asked. His melodrama had been irritating before, but discussing a man’s life hanging in the balance, his melodrama was down right unacceptable. “I’ll repeat. Have. You. Talked. With. The. Council. About. Paul?”
“Well, I pulled some strings and then Hector pulled some more strings, and, well”—he waved his hands about—“long story short, I’m meeting with them tonight.”
“That’s great,” I said, sighing from relief or exhaustion or anticipation . . . who knows. “Thank you for doing whatever you did to see them so quickly. “ I unconsciously glanced in the direction of the hall. “He doesn’t have much time.”
“Are you sure I’m the best man for the job?” he asked, twirling the fireplace poker in its stand. “I don’t think I’m the best choice given I don’t particularly care for you anymore and I positively loathe him. That sound like unbiased representation?”
It didn’t sound like he expected, or wanted a response, but I felt I owed him one. “I know I’ve put you in a tough spot with this,” I began, sliding my hands down my legs. “And I know you’d rather wring both our necks than try to save them, but you know why you’re doing all this? Helping me with my training, petitioning the Council to save Paul? Bringing me glasses of water?” I said, lifting the glass at him.
“Enlighten me,” he said. “Since I’m still not sure why.”
I grinned—it was so obvious. He’d spent so much time with William over the decades some of him had brushed off on Patrick and that’s why I found myself craving Patrick’s company as much as I cringed from it. “Because you’re a good man. The best kind there is. I know you like to play it all James Dean, but inside, you’re as fiercely compassionate as William.”
He sniffed, hitching his hands on his hips. “Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone. Besides, you might not want to go singing my praises until we see what the Council decides.”
“I have faith in you.”
“Faith in me?” he asked, craning his neck back. “Misguided like Hector, but I’ll take it.” He took another glance at his watch, frowning. “All this touchy feely talk’s made me late.” He looked up at me and managed a smile that was almost genuine. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Bright and early and, since our Pauly boy couldn’t hear a tank barreling through the walls with what he’s on, let’s just meet here from now on.”
“Have fun,” I said, wanting to say an eternity more. Something along the lines of, Say hi to your brother for me and, oh yeah, I love him so much it’s making me sick being separated from him.
He disappeared an instant later. No gradual fade, no sparkling, swirling cyclone, nothing impressive or grandiose about teleportation. Just here one moment and gone the next.
Teleportation—the least flashy thing about Patrick Hayward.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
INSTINCTS
I’d come to the conclusion waiting for death was worse than death itself.
I was exhausted. In every sense of the word. The past week I’d done nothing other than train with Patrick or attend to Paul.
I’d failed at both.
If anything, Patrick and I were more confused than ever with how to best approach my training and sometimes I thought the only thing keeping Paul alive was my determination and inability to say goodbye. And I wouldn’t say it, at least not until we heard back from the Council.
They were taking their sweet time—as if it wasn’t a factor. It seemed like a no-brainer to me. Paul seemed like the ideal candidate for Immortality, but this wouldn’t be the first time the Council and I didn’t see eye-to-eye.
I still hadn’t recovered from Patrick’s life-sucking experiment, although I’m sure my zero intake of food and sleep didn’t help.
The last look I’d dared in a mirror had been yesterday morning and I’d half-expected it to shatter. My eyes looked like dull marbles buried in deep hollows, accompanied by sunken cheeks that looked rouged with ash. My limp hair had miraculously taken on some height, but it was from the ratty, uncombed nest piled at the crown of my ponytail. I looked like a bride fit for a corpse.
The rhythm of the rocking chair was slowly putting me into a trance, just enough for my eyes to feel heavy and my mind muddy. I allowed my lids to fall, automatically sharpening my hearing, just in case Paul needed me.
I heard the turn of a key in a lock right before the front door eased open. It felt like my lids were fighting concrete to open, but when they did, I knew I’d finally found the reprieve of sleep . . . and I never wanted to wake up.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” I whispered in a dream-rummy voice. I wanted to run to him and do every last thing I could to him in a dream, but the fear of his image hazing away if I moved kept me firmly rooted where I was.