Immortal Mine

by Cindy C. Bennett

  “However,” she says, interrupting my musing. “I intend to take care of you, protect you,” this said with a firm look at Sam and, weirdly, Shane. “I’m your only choice besides leaving Goshen. That means you’ll have to accept me as your guardian.” I feel like I’m missing some important part of the play, here, that there is some kind of subtext that everyone but me understands.

  “I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?” I grumble. “Still, I’ve been on my own for a long time, and I don’t need to be babysat.” I glare at her. “And Sam stays.”

  Her eyes widen. “He lives here?”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course not, id—” I stop myself from completing the automatic insult. “He lives with his uncle. But he’s here quite a bit.” A pause as inspirations strikes. “He helps out on the farm.” Sam swallows a grunt next to me. Sounds kind of painful.

  Her eyes drop to where our arms are entwined.

  “And he’s my friend,” I respond to her unspoken question.

  “Hum,” she responds noncommittally.

  “You guys wanna stay for dinner?” I ask with faux brightness, taking Sam by the hand, catching Shane’s as I pass, and pulling them both from the room behind me, leaving her standing there watching after us.

  “Got any pie?” Sam asks, grunting as I elbow him in the ribs.

  Chapter 26

  Sam

  The guilt I feel over having harmed Niahm is almost more than I can bear. Centuries of training and perfecting my reflexes are the only reason she doesn’t have a fatal knife wound—or even realize it was a knife I held in my hand. At the last second, I recognized her intention, and was able to turn my hand, burying my fist in her ribs, rather than the knife. Still, it was a violent blow. I’m surprised she doesn’t have a broken rib, seems to have recovered quickly, with no lingering effects. I looked into her mind, saw that she has no malice or anger toward me for what I did. She doesn’t need to. I have more than enough for both of us.

  It would be enough, dealing with hurting her on top of her grief, but then to see her grandmother, know what she is.... She recognized us—Shane and I—immediately as well. Not who we are, but what we are. We can all recognize one another.

  Knowing that Niahm’s grandma is immortal fills me with conflict. Hope, larger than before, that Niahm herself might be immortal as well. Fear that all of my hope will come to naught, and I’ll be forced to watch her die. Dread that I’m now confronted with dealing with a new, paranoid immortal.

  We immortals are a suspicious lot. There aren’t many of us who can coexist together peacefully. Many immortals have become arrogant and malicious, fearing no consequence for any of their actions, no matter what they do. Death, the worst thing most humans can imagine, is not an option for us. Those particular immortals are the reason the Sentinels exist, to eradicate those who would use mortals for their personal pleasure or gain. The Sentinels are the only mortals who know how to kill us.

  The problem is the Sentinels don’t know who is who, and therefore try to kill any immortal they come across. No, that’s not right. They don’t “come across” us—they hunt us. And they, though mortal, are not beyond corruption themselves. Some of them simply hunt us for the sport, for the achievement—and for the padding of their bank accounts. The Sentinels don’t care about the right or wrong of what they do. They simply use it as justification for their own evil deeds.

  Jean, in her short time as an immortal, has learned to be fully suspicious of other immortals. This makes me question why, wonder if she’s already losing her conscience. She wouldn’t be the first to lose it so quickly. Now I have even more reason to worry about Niahm. If Jean even suspects that Niahm could be like us, she might decide to stop her before she can become a threat. I can’t take the risk of that happening; I also can’t do anything that would further hurt Niahm. I could see—when I took her hand to read her non-existent, as it turned out, hatred for me—that though she’s angry with her grandmother, there is an instinctive love that resides within her for this one last living relative she has.

  “Earth to Sam,” Niahm says lightly, waving her fingers in front of my eyes. I give the Irish one final pat, and turn toward her.

  “Finished?” I ask, nodding toward Sheila, who she’d been grooming.

  She nods, seeming almost shy, shuffling in the hay that litters the floor of the stable.

  “Everything okay?” I say, lightly running my thumb across her cheek.

  She glances up at me, and I’m struck once again by her eyes.

  “Do you think...” She clears her throat, and begins again. “Do you think it’s too soon to go back to school?”

  I’m surprised by her question, and then realize she probably thinks I’m a good one to ask, having lost my own parents. I can’t tell her that not only was I not in school at that time. It’s been so long I can’t really give a timeline as to how long I grieved. It’s been ten days since her parents were buried—three since Jean showed up. Three of the longest days of my very long life.

  I place my hands on her shoulders, rubbing lightly up and down.

  “Niahm, only you can decide that.”

  “You think people will talk…think I’m unfeeling?”

  I smile at her. “Everyone in town knows you well enough to know that is as far from the truth as possible.”

  “I haven’t always been the nicest person.” She grins wryly. “You should know that better than anyone.”

  “Yes, but I also know as well as anyone that it’s all bluster. You are a kind, loving person who loved her parents. Not one person will doubt that—now or ever.”

  Tears shimmer in her eyes. She doesn’t let them fall.

  “I just feel like I’m going crazy sitting around here all day. I spend all my time trying to avoid Jean, which gives me too much alone time. I need to keep busy, keep my mind occupied. I need my friends.”

  I pull her close and give her a hug, which she returns without hesitation.

  “I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

  She leans back and grins happily up at me. I move my hands up to caress the sides of her neck. I can’t help myself; I lean down and kiss her lightly. She freezes in surprise for a moment. Then innocently she returns the kiss, her arms tightening around my waist. It’s the most amazing sensation I’ve felt in nearly five centuries, taking all my strength to keep my knees from buckling with overwhelming feeling. With my thumbs I urge her to slant her head, which she readily does, allowing me to deepen the kiss.

  The true depth of my loneliness has been kept from my awareness until this moment. Centuries of doing nothing more than existing, waiting for this feeling, seem suddenly crushing, unbearable. In the far reaches of my mind, I comprehend the vulgarity of giving Niahm her first kiss in the middle of a smelly barn, standing in dirt and hay, both of us smelling like horses. I no more have the strength of will to stop than I do to walk away from Niahm without her command. I do have the strength, however, to keep from pouring my feeling, my passion, into the kiss. That would surely terrify her, send her running from me faster than I could chase.

  I finally manage to pull back, blinking to keep the intense emotion from showing in my eyes. Niahm’s eyes have tears in them as well, and I immediately worry that I’ve hurt her again. Or scared her. Maybe I wasn’t as restrained as I’d thought.

  Then she smiles at me. “Well, it’s about time,” she laughs.

  Chapter 27

  Niahm

  I grin foolishly as Sam drives away, as I enter the house—even the sight of Jean sitting at the kitchen table doesn’t wipe it away—as I breeze past her and up the stairs, as I fall asleep. I even wake with the grin still on my face. I can’t help but wonder why in the world I waited so long to experience such an amazing thing. Then again, maybe it’s only because it was Sam who kissed me that makes it so amazing.

  I relive the kiss, the feeling of having his mouth pressed against mine. At first light, almost a butterfly’s touch—until he tilted my head. Then
it became more like a stampede, the steady pounding of hooves beating along my nerves in a way that left my head spinning.

  I’m still grinning as he picks me up, and he smiles back with something like relief in his face. I know he still feels guilty about hitting me, no matter how many times I’ve told him I hardly blame him. It was an accident. He claims he only went after her because he thought I was in danger. It seems a lame excuse, I mean, how could one little old lady be a threat? Of course, if I’m being honest, Jean isn’t exactly some withering little prune. She’s strong and vital, and looks much younger than her true age.

  Luckily, the social worker apparently wasn’t concerned enough to stay to make sure I was okay. Glad I’m not relying on her to take care of me. I let it go because even Jean doesn’t want to talk about it, brushes it off as unimportant, a misunderstanding. It’s all a little strange to me, but my euphoria over the kiss overrides my suspicions.

  As I walk through the school doors, and am immediately surrounded with hugs and sympathy by the double-H, followed by almost the entire rest of the school body, at least those who are in the upper grades, my grin fades. I feel a moment of deep remorse for my happiness. How dare I feel so happy when my parents are gone?

  Sam takes my hand, gives it a squeeze as if he knows what I’m feeling. Maybe because of the sympathy for me I don’t receive a single glare from any of the other girls all day in spite of the fact that Sam is constantly at my side, and always either holding my hand or encircling me with his arm. Beneath my guilt, I feel a worm of pleasure at the gestures.

  The overpowering grief—which feels like it is here to stay for the duration of my life—is in a maelstrom of turmoil with guilt at my strong, consuming desire for Sam to kiss me again, and wondering how soon he will. By the end of the day, I’m exhausted from the emotional turbulence, and from the false assurances I’m required to give everyone, telling them that I’m fine, when I’m anything but.

  Sam comes home with me, of course, but he heads to the barn to prepare to work with the Irish again. I enter the house, determined to complete my homework quickly, then my chores, so that I can be with him.

  “Niahm.”

  I cringe at the sound of my name coming from the woman who has interrupted my life and reminds me by her very presence that my mom and dad will never be coming home again. My father will never again sing with me in his horrible, off-tune—

  “Niahm,” she repeats, and I turn angrily toward her, swallowing the tears.

  “What!” I demand.

  Jean flinches at my tone, but steps toward me, anyway.

  “We need to talk.” Her voice is calm, which, of course, only serves to irritate me.

  “Not now, I’ve got homework,” I say rudely, turning toward the stairs. Her hand on my arm startles me. How in the world had she crossed the room so quickly, so quietly?

  “Now,” she says firmly. I might have refused again, except that for one moment, she sounds—and smells—eerily like my mother. Desperate for anything that reminds me of her, I follow her to the kitchen table. Once seated, however, her face reminds me that nothing will bring back the one I long for, so I sullenly cross my arms and lean back against the chair, hoping my body language will convey my irritation and boredom to her.

  “I know things are bad—”

  Her words compel me out of my chair. This is a conversation I definitely don’t want to have with her.

  “Please,” she says, quietly. I sink back down into the chair, emotions barely contained beneath the surface.

  She takes a breath, seems to consider her words as she watches me, and finally begins anew.

  “I know you don’t like me,” she begins, and I interrupt her.

  “I don’t know you well enough to like or dislike you,” I say.

  “Hmm,” is her sardonic response. “Well, then perhaps we should rectify that.”

  I nearly roll my eyes at how I’ve painted myself into a corner with this one. The last thing I want to do is spend time with the woman who abandoned us all.

  “Look, Niahm, this isn’t easy for me, either. You seem to forget that Beth was my daughter. You’ve lost your mother, and I’ve lost my daughter.” Her eyes cloud with tears. Oh, this is too much!

  “You mean your daughter that you abandoned all those years ago? The one who thought you were dead, who grieved for you like I grieve for—” I stop, refusing to give her my emotion.

  She takes another deep breath.

  “I think she knew I was alive.”

  I scoff. “Delude yourself if you must,” I laugh harshly. “She would hardly tell me you were dead, stop looking for you if she thought….” A thought enters my mind even as I say the words, and I suddenly know it’s the truth.

  “She wrote to me,” she says, apparently not noticing the panic that envelopes me. I struggle to push it back. I have to finish this conversation, so that I can talk to Sam. Then her words penetrate and I shake my head.

  “What do you mean, she wrote to you? How would she know where to send a letter?”

  She smiles, not at me but at some distant memory, and her smile is that of my mother.

  “When she was little, we used to play a game. We would write notes to one another, hide them in the crook of the tree behind our house.”

  “What are you saying? That she left you notes in your tree, that she would travel to the city just to... ” Of course she would, each time she and my father flew into or out of the country. And it fits in with the theory that continues to grow in possibility in my mind. Jean simply watches me, waiting. Another trait shared by her daughter.

  “Where are they?” My words are quiet.

  “I have them. And I found the ones I’d written to her in her armoire.”

  A surge of anger flows through me, that she would dare search my mother’s belongings. But of course she would, she was her daughter. The anger is as much at myself for not having looked through her things before Jean was able to. And at my mother—why didn’t she ever tell me?

  I stand up again, walking to the back door. I need to speak to Sam now.

  “I don’t want you to see him anymore.”

  Her words freeze me. I turn back, putting as much ice into my eyes and my words as I’m capable of.

  “My mom might have known you were alive, but there had to be a reason she kept it hidden from me. She obviously didn’t ever intend for you to be a part of my life. If you weren’t my only choice, I wouldn’t abide having you here now. But be very clear on this, grandmother, I have no ties to you, no obligation to you, and on the day I turn eighteen, you will walk away from me as you once did her, and I will never think of you again. There will be no notes, in trees or otherwise. In the meantime, I’ve lived my life so far just fine without you, and will continue to do so. You have zero right to tell me who I can hang out with,” my voice is rising, but I don’t care if the whole world hears. “I will decide who is in my life and who is not. Sam is definitely in, and you… you will soon be definitely out.”

  I turn away, slamming the door unsatisfyingly behind me, and hurry to the barn, hoping to catch Sam before he starts his training.

  Chapter 28

  Sam

  “Can you believe the nerve of that woman?” Niahm demands.

  Niahm has recounted her conversation with Jean to me. Part of me, the part that feels the natural enmity toward this intrusive immortal, wants to agree with Niahm, to insist she throw her out, send her far away where she can be no threat to Niahm, or to Shane.

  The bigger part of me, the overwhelming part that will do anything for this fascinating girl standing before me, knows that whatever else she is, Jean is Niahm’s only living blood relative. I understand better than most how precious that gift is.

  “She’s only trying to protect you,” I murmur, nearly choking on the words.

  “What?” Niahm swings toward me, stopping mid-stride in her pacing to stare at me incredulously.

  I clear my throat.

  “I
mean, she’s your grandma, right?” Niahm’s eyes narrow. “Look, Niahm,” I walk to her, sliding my hands down her arms, avoiding the temptation to take her hands in mine. “I don’t particularly like her, either, but I can understand the desire to protect those you love.”

  “She can’t love me,” Niahm argues. “She doesn’t even know me.”

  “No, she doesn’t know you,” I agree, “but you are the flesh-and-blood of her own daughter. That brings a sort of innate love with it. She sees me as a threat; she wants to make sure you are kept safe.”

  Niahm scoffs at that. “How could she see you as a threat? She doesn’t know you, either.”

  If only you knew, I think. Instead I say, “I did go at her the first time I met her.”

  A small giggle escapes Niahm. I pull her into my arms, and she relaxes against me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

  “Sam, do you think that’s why they travelled so much? She was searching for her mom?” I can hear by her tone that she already believes this to be the truth.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

  “Because I would do that, if I thought my mom were alive. I’d search every corner of the earth, trying to find her.”

  I don’t answer, just squeeze her tighter. She’s silent for long minutes, and I wait.

  “Sam?”

  “Mm?”