“Are you okay?” she asks again.
I take a breath, twisting my hands together in my lap.
“I’m fine, Sam and I just—” I feel her tense at Sam’s name. When I don’t continue, she turns to me.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her tone implying she’s speaking of her reaction to him.
“Why? What is it with you two? Do you know each other? From before, I mean.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but says nothing. Finally, she blows out a breath.
“I know of him,” she says. Then, with urgency, “You need to stay away from him, Niahm. There are things... you don’t know, can’t imagine.”
I think about what I do know, and what she can’t imagine.
“Like what?” I ask, recalling my earlier thoughts about what it would be like to know you could never die, what sorts of thing one might... “If there’s something you know, you have to tell me.”
She looks at the walls, the floor, everywhere but me, and I feel a tightness begin in my belly. Finally, she glances at me.
“It’s not so much Sam,” she says with a half-smile. “It’s his family.”
So, he does have family. “What about his family?” I ask.
She shrugs. “It’s not my place to tell you, Niahm. It’s his.”
“But if you think they might be a danger—”
“No,” she says, “not to you.”
“But they are a danger?”
“Some people think so. But then, those people don’t really have any idea.”
“This is a very cryptic conversation,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Niahm,” she says, raising one hand and resting it on my back. “I don’t mean to be. But, as I said, it’s—”
“—his story to tell, I know.” She smiles at my disgruntled tone.
Suddenly, a thought strikes me. Does she know about Sam? Does she know that he’s immortal? Is that where she sees the danger? But how could she...
The image of her dark roots flashes into my mind, that she felt she had to leave home all those years ago. Why? To protect whom? Her husband and daughter... or herself, because she knows she’ll never age? I’m propelled to my feet. I can feel the look of horror on my face, and I can see it reflected in hers. She stands also.
“Niahm? What is it?”
I back away from her, as if seeing her for the first time. Her unlined skin, not even laugh lines around her eyes, how she never gets tired or worn out, how she walks as tall and strong as... no, more strong than my own mother.
She raises a hand toward me in alarm. “Niahm?”
“No!” I say, holding my own hand toward her. “Don’t.”
She stops, and a wary look comes into her eyes—the eyes so much like my own.
“What would happen,” I begin slowly, “if you were shot?”
She blanches at my words. “Why, Niahm, whatever do you... you know what would happen.”
But I can see it now, in her eyes, her face, even her body language.
“Would you die?” I demand. “What if you were stabbed, or hit by a car, or... went off a cliff in a burning car?”
“Niahm! Why would you ask that?” Her words are right, but her tone is completely wrong. I can see her processing, see that she knows I know.
“Or would you live,” I say, my conviction growing strong. “Would you live to dye your hair gray, to cover the fact that it’s dark as it was when you were young?”
She’s staring at me now, stunned.
“Answer me,” I say, my voice low, not letting her break eye contact.
“What did he tell you?” Her voice is a whisper, barely heard.
“Not about you,” I say.
“I told him not to tell you,” she says, fury suffusing her voice. Then, as if realizing what she’s admitting, she turns pleading eyes on me. “Niahm, please, I—”
“Get out,” I say through gritted teeth, rage and betrayal cutting through me.
“Please let me explain—”
“Get out!” I yell.
She takes a breath, then turns and leaves, tears shining in her eyes. I resist the urge to throw something at the door as it closes behind her. With a shuddering sob, I slide down to the floor. She knew about Sam all along, and he... he knew about her. He knew, but he didn’t tell me, even after he told me about himself.
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and hit the speed dial.
“Well, look who’s decided to pull herself away from her boyfriend long enough to remember she has a best friend.” Stacy’s voice is teasing, but the undercurrent is pure anger, and guilt cuts through me at how little time I’ve given her.
“Stacy,” is all I can manage.
“Vee? What’s wrong?” The anger is gone, replaced by concern. When I don’t answer, she says, “I’m on my way.”
Chapter 40
Sam
Shane stares at me, his silence thunderous in the room. It’s far worse than his yelling, worse than even when he curses at me in Gaeilge. Waves of disapproval roll off of him.
“That’s how you told her?” he finally says. I’ve just finished telling him everything that happened at the motel. I nod in answer. “You do realize that this girl just buried her parents four months ago, right?”
I twitch at his words. Of course I knew that, but I didn’t really think... I mean, it’s been several hundred years since I myself have buried anyone who meant as much to me. I sigh, misery and self-recrimination flowing through me. I hunch forward, dropping my forehead into my hands. I can’t believe I didn’t stop to think what it might do to her, how it would make her feel so close on the heels of her parents deaths.
“I didn’t think about that,” I try to explain. Then, realizing how lame my words are, I say, “I didn’t think at all. I could only think of showing her in a way that would make it clear that I was telling the truth, that she would have to accept it as truth.”
“So to recap,” he says, “you took an emotionally fragile, seventeen year old girl to a motel, locked her in and, to her way of thinking, killed yourself, without any kind of warning or explanation that you wouldn’t really be dead. Then you let her sit there with your corpse for over an hour. And then, like a zombie, came alive again.”
I don’t have to try to imagine what it felt like to her sitting trapped in that room with what she thought to be my lifeless body, I’d seen it.
“Could you just beat the crap out of me, please?” I beg, deadly serious as I glance up at him.
“Not that I wouldn’t love to for your complete and utter idiocy, and for causing the girl unnecessary psychological harm, but no. I don’t think so. It wouldn’t really help in the long run, would it?”
“It would help me now,” I groan, wretchedly miserable in a way that I didn’t think I was capable of anymore.
“Then you definitely don’t deserve it.” He stands and walks past me, squeezing my shoulder sympathetically as he passes, which only makes me feel worse. “You’ll be lucky if she ever forgives you,” he says.
And I didn’t think I could possibly feel worse.
Chapter 41
Sam
When I walk into the barn early the next morning, planning to do Niahm’s chores to hopefully soften her attitude toward me a little, I find her already there, saddling Sheila.
“Niahm.” Her name escapes me in surprise. She jerks at the sound and turns my way. At the sight of her face, I take an instinctive step forward, but halt as she visibly tenses. Her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks pale and drawn, her mouth pulled tight.
“I’m going for a ride,” she informs me, as if I couldn’t divine that myself by her actions.
“Should I?” I lift a hand toward Hercules, who has retained the name despite Niahm’s protests and disgust. He’s an amazing stallion to ride, mostly broken though he still has his moments of wanting to return to his wild nature.
“No, I want to go alone.”
“Okay,” I say, though it’s anything but. “Are y
ou alright?”
“I don’t want to talk about it now,” she says listlessly. “I just want to ride.”
“Okay,” I say again. “Is there anything I can do for you while you’re gone?”
She looks as if she’ll refuse, but instead says, “Yeah, I haven’t milked Bessie or fed the chickens.”
The flatness of her tone worries me as much as how she looks. Her words worry me even more. Niahm never does anything until all of her animals are taken care of. The thought reminds me that I haven’t seen Bob. As if sensing my wondering, he gives a little whine from where he crouches in the corner. Apparently his mood is a reflection of his mistresses.
Niahm leads Sheila from the barn, her body language reflecting none of the joy that it usually does when she’s about to ride. Bob lifts his head in her direction, giving another whine before settling back down. She swings up into the saddle outside the barn, and they take off at a run. Now I know how upset she is; she would never start Sheila at a run without walking her first.
I crouch down, holding my hand toward the dog, still watching where she was just moments before. Bob belly-crawls over to me. I scrub him behind the ears.
“That bad, huh?” I ask, and he whines again, confirming my question. “Wanna help me feed the chickens?” He perks up, his tail thumping the ground twice. He turns his head toward the opening where Niahm led Sheila out, and gives a small bark.
“She’ll be gone for a while. You’ll be okay. You can chase all the chickens you want.”
He stares at me, as if processing my words, then stands up and wags his tail with enthusiasm.
“That’s more like it,” I say with a grin. Bob leads the way to the chicken coop, ready to play.
Two hours later, chickens fed, cow milked, horses fed, and still no sign of Niahm. It’s been thirty minutes since Bob took up his position at the edge of the barn, staring in the direction that she went. My own gaze hasn’t wandered far from the same.
With a sigh, I give up. There’s a lot of run-off, and the creek is running high and fast. Add to that the slick muddy ground that can take a horse down without warning, and I can’t just keep waiting, no matter how furious she’ll be.
I quickly saddle Hercules, and lead him from the barn. Bob is standing, wagging his tail expectantly at me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back,” I say, lifting myself into the saddle.
I find her near the creek in the same spot she and I had sat so long ago, when I first tried to convince her to like me instead of hate me. Feels like déjà vu. She’s curled up on the damp ground, knees pulled up to her chest, while Sheila wanders nearby. I slide off Hercules and approach her.
“Niahm?”
She doesn’t move, and as I walk around to where I can see her face, I see she’s fallen asleep, hiccupping lightly, her face still damp. It’s clear she’s been crying and my heart contracts. I’ve been beating myself up since dropping her off last night. I didn’t really think through how she’d feel, watching me die without any warning, so close on the heels of her parents’ death. Niahm shivers violently, and I pull my jacket off, wrapping it around her as I pull her upper body off the ground and into my arms, pulling her onto my lap.
“Sam?” she asks, stiffens momentarily as she realizes it is me, then relaxes against me as her tears begin again. Her capitulation doesn’t feel like acceptance or forgiveness, though. More like she just doesn’t have the energy to pull away.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, pulling her cold hands into my warm ones. I’m assaulted immediately by her feelings of deep, cutting betrayal. I see her conversation with Jean, her realization that Jean is like me, and her anger at being lied to—particularly by me. I mutter a curse under my breath. I should have known she’d figure it out. Niahm is nothing if not intelligent.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she accuses. I consider pretending I have no idea what she’s talking about, but decide right then that I won’t lie to her anymore. Anything she asks, I’ll answer.
“I should have,” I say. “Honestly, I felt it was her—”
“Don’t you dare say it was her story to tell,” she says angrily, pushing harshly away from me as she slides off my lap.
I have no defense, so I don’t even try. She glares at me, wiping her tears away.
“I’ll answer any questions you have, Niahm. No more lies, no more secrets.” She narrows her eyes in disbelief. “Starting with this,” I say, swiping my green contacts from my eyes. Her own widen in disbelief as she stares at my eyes, so like her own, only with a much smaller rim of green instead of gold.
“How...” she breathes. She shakes her head, scooting further from me. “Does that mean I...?”
I shake my head. “Not necessarily. It can be an indication, but it’s not a guarantee. Eyes like ours are passed down through our genes. Without them, we know there’s no possibility. With them, we know that it is a possibility, but no more than that.”
Her face reflects her dismay at this information. I can’t really blame her. I can practically watch her thoughts flit through her expression, shock and horror at this information. Her fists clench and she squeezes her eyes shut, taking deep, deliberate breaths. After a few moments, she clears her throat, that admirable courage coming through once again as she keeps herself together. I think if it were me I’d be freaking out.
“So,” she begins, her still-hoarse voice shaking a bit, “when would someone know, then?”
“Only when something happens to cause their mortal death. If they wake, then they know.”
“But sometimes someone with eyes like… this... might just die?”
“Yes.”
“What if it happens when you’re old? Would you be old forever?”
“No. If something doesn’t happen before your fifty-third birthday to cause your mortal death, then you won’t become immortal. "
"Why fifty three?"
"No one knows for certain, though there are several theories. In numerology, the first number, or five, represents man. A star has five points which represents a man standing arms and legs out. It was the fifth day of creation in which God created man. Adam, the first man, was immortal until he fell. It's also a number which ends in itself when raised by its own power, making it a circular number. A circle is endless, or eternal."
"Huh," Niahm says. "I didn't know any of that. What about the three?"
"Well, the number three is considered to be the first true number and has heavy meaning in magic. It represents the past, present, and future. In geometry it’s the first number of sides on a shape which creates an enclosure—as in a triangle—making three sides also endless or eternal. It also represents the beginning, the middle, and the end."
"Kind of freaky," Niahm says, sounding absolutely fascinated.
"If you add them together," I say, "you get eight. Of course the number eight turned on its side is the symbol for eternity. It also represents regeneration or rebirth. The eighth day of the week is the new beginning, or the revival of the week."
"You've spent some time studying this?" she asks with a small upturn at one corner of her mouth.
I shrug. "I was curious. No one has ever known of an immortal that changed after that age." I glance at her. "Immortals tend to look younger than their mortal age, anyway.”
“Immortal,” Niahm mutters, looking at the stream as it flows by. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.” A thought strikes her and her eyes fly back to mine. “Is that why you’ve been with me? Because you saw my eyes and knew I might be like you?”
“No,” I quickly negate. “I didn’t really see your eyes until that day in the barn? Remember?” I watch as the memory comes to her.
“But do you think on some subconscious level you recognized that I might be?”
“No. Not that. But there is something else.”
Her eyes turn wary as she weighs whether she wants to know or not. Finally, beaten, she mutters, “What?”
“As an immortal, on rare occasion you meet a mortal that you become bound to.”
“Bound to? What does that mean?”
I try to find the words to explain while making sure she doesn’t doubt that my love is true. “Uh, basically, you meet the person and you feel this pull toward them. As time goes on, if you spend more time with them, the feeling intensifies, until it becomes impossible to leave them—unless they ask you to. If you go away when you first feel it, sometimes you can walk away and avoid the binding, but not always.”
She swallows loudly, and I don’t need to hold her hand to know what she’s thinking.
“So you are bound to me?” she asks in a small voice.
“Yes,” I say honestly. “But it’s different with you.”
“Different how?” she asks skeptically.
“I won’t deny the initial pull I felt with you,” I begin. “But I’ve never had it become so intense so quickly. It wasn’t long at all before I knew I couldn’t go.”
She turns her face away, but not before I see the hurt in her eyes.
“Niahm,” I say gently, but she refuses to look my way. “Being bound and being in love are two separate things.” Now she looks at me, bewildered. “An immortal can be bound to men or women, and it’s almost always just a deep, protective instinct. It’s kind of hard to explain. It’s an inescapable need to watch over them, and keep them safe. We usually try to befriend the person, because it makes it easier to stay near them.” I scoot closer to her, and reach out to touch her arm. “I’ve never been in love with someone I’m bound to. Until now.”
Tears form in her eyes again, but she blinks them back.
“Are you lying to me?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I smile. “That’s another thing about being bound. Once it’s taken firm hold, it becomes impossible to lie to the mortal. That can be rather inconvenient at times.”
“But you did lie to me,” she says. “You didn’t tell me what you are, or what Jean is.”
Immortal Mine Page 20
