Angel of Death

by S. Massery

  He doesn’t look away from me, either. I meet his gaze and my heart skips a beat. My wrists are still caught in his hand, stretched above my head, and his other arm braces his weight. He stretches me to my limit, hitting a sensitive spot deep inside me, and the climax comes on slowly. It’s a wave that I can see approaching from miles away, and the anticipation tightens my chest.

  He groans. “Hadley,” he murmurs, but it sounds far away.

  We come at the same time. He slowly lowers his weight on me, pinning me in place with his hips. He doesn’t move from his position on top of me. I stare up at him, both of us breathing hard, and we watch each other until our pulses slow.

  “How bad is it?” he asks me.

  If this were any other moment, I would look away. But as it is, I’m stripped bare. He rocks his hips, reminding me that he’s still inside me, and I whimper. “They wanted to start an aggressive treatment immediately.”

  He closes his eyes.

  If I ever thought I could get away without breaking Griffin’s heart, I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. Because the expression on his face? That’s heartbreak.

  My heart breaks right along with his.

  He lowers his head until his forehead presses to mine, and he rolls us onto our sides. Our legs intertwine. There isn’t a part of us that isn’t touching, and we stay like that for a long time.

  We see the Eiffel Tower. I get to eat my croissant. Griffin holds my hand as we walk down the streets of Paris, and things seem ordinary… until they’re not. My legs give out, and it’s only a miracle—and Griffin’s fast reflexes—that keep me from hitting the ground. I wrap my arms around his neck. He lifts me, and the shiver that racks through me is stronger than just being cold.

  He frowns.

  “Are you hot?”

  “Freezing,” I answer. It isn’t like we didn’t dress accordingly for the end of March. I wear a knit cap. A sweatshirt over a long-sleeved shirt over a t-shirt. Jeans. Boots. I’m sweating, but I thought that was from the exercise.

  We go into a restaurant, and he sets me down, his hand immediately going to my forehead. The back of his palm rests against my skin for a moment, and then his frown deepens. “You have a fever,” he says. “I’m not positive without a thermometer, but the symptoms fit. Your forehead is hot… and it’s a common symptom of leukemia.”

  I shake my head. “Our day just started. I mean… we were going to see some museums. The cathedral down the street. More cafes. There was that bus tour—”

  “I know.” His tone is too much like pity, and I hate it. “But your body is telling you that you need to rest.”

  “I just… I need to pee.” I point toward the sign for the toilets. “I’ll be right back.”

  He nods, worry coming off him in waves, and watches me go. I slowly navigate the steep spiral staircase and pray there’s going to be an exit down here. I go in the opposite direction of the toilets, winding through a narrow hallway, until a small Exit Here sign catches my attention.

  I shove the heavy door open, and it deposits me in another stairwell. Up I climb, and then I’m in another cafe. I cross to the door and push out onto the sidewalk. My breathing is heavier than it should be, and I’m off-balance. Still, I try to shake off the loathing.

  Without Griffin, the world feels infinitely scarier.

  I head down the street, pulling the cap off my head in a weak attempt to disguise myself if Griffin happens to search for me outside. I follow a group of people to a main road, and the cathedral I had been anticipating to see catches my attention.

  I go inside without hesitation. There are huge arches. The pews are made of old wood. The whole place smells like incense.

  And the most impressive thing about it is that, while there are a lot of people in here, examining the artwork and architecture, it’s nearly silent.

  Slowly, I make my way down the center aisle. Various pews are occupied by bowed-head prayers. When I can’t walk anymore, I slide into a pew.

  I’m not religious. When I was younger, Mom tried to take me to church. It was what the people of Bitterwood did. For a while, I was the good, Catholic daughter. Eventually, though, it was too much for my family. Mom got busier. Dad never really wanted to go, except on Christmas. The mean girls in my school went to my church, and I hated their eyes on me. My Sunday best was nothing compared to theirs. I stumbled along with the prayers and readings, while they knew everything. I was awkward, out of place, and unsure if I believed in something I couldn’t see.

  So we stopped going.

  Sitting here, now, I wish I could take everything back. A few days after I was diagnosed, eating dinner in my parents’ little kitchen, my dad said that some people have a religious change of heart after trauma. He said if I ever felt the desire to go back to church, he would support it.

  Mom had cried, bent over her plate, and he’d held her hand.

  Tears form in my eyes. I can’t control the shivering now, and the sweat collecting across my body makes it worse. I’m not ready to give in to my body just yet. I’m not ready to call it quits.

  I would give a lot to have had the foresight to say goodbye to my parents. But last week, I was in denial. I couldn’t think the word cancer, let alone say it out loud. I didn’t want to know that I might have a religious change of heart. I wanted a change in blood.

  I shrug off the layers until I’m in just the thin tank top. My muscles ache at the movement, and I double over. Everything hurts.

  In this exact moment, I’m ready to let go. I had my fun—most of it, anyway—and I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather go.

  Griffin slides into the pew, but he doesn’t say anything. I want to stop the pain, and him being here triples it.

  I jerk my head up, toward him, and the tears spill over. “I just want to die,” I whisper. “Why can’t you let me?”

  There’s something between us. It’s taken root slowly over the last few days—or maybe it’s always been there and it’s just now blooming into something more. It tugs my heart, piercingly sharp.

  He looks as tragic as a fallen angel. Maybe he really is the Angel of Death and he can carry me away. That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

  “I can’t let you go,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  He touches my shoulder, and that breaks the barrier between us. I lean toward him, and he picks me up, turning me on his lap. I rest my head against his chest, chills rolling through me. He exhales softly, and my tears morph into silent sobs.

  He stands, lifting me with him, and walks out of the church. I keep my eyes shut, unable to control the tears that fall down my cheeks. The world slants and spins. ‘I can’t let you go,’ he said.

  What are you going to do, Griffin?

  I wake up in a plane, just as the wheels touch down. I grab ahold of the closest thing to me, which happens to be Griffin’s leg, and panic flares through me.

  He smiles. “You’re awake.” He pats my hand, which is still like a claw in his thigh.

  “Where are we?”

  All of the shades are pulled down, although sunlight still filters through.

  Did he take me home—all the way back to my parents and Dr. Braum and a hospital that I’ll rot away in? The panic still hasn’t released its grip.

  My voice is an octave higher when I say, “Griffin?”

  “We just landed on an island outside Portugal,” he says.

  I stare at him. He seems exhausted, with messed-up hair and dark circles under his eyes. “Why?”

  The plane taxies and eventually stops, the engines whining.

  A flight attendant comes out of the galley and says, “We’ll be deplaning in a minute.”

  “Griffin, why are we on an island outside Portugal?” My voice is positively shrill—and not just because when I passed out, we were in Paris.

  Because he looks guilty.

  He rubs his eyes. I raise my eyebrows and wait, and my stomach seems to plummet into my toes while he watches me. I’m still waiti
ng for an answer when the flight attendant opens the outside door.

  Griffin unbuckles my seat belt and holds out his hand. “Trust me.”

  I slide my hand into his and let him pull me to my feet. The world wobbles for a minute, but it steadies.

  Still, I move at a snail’s pace to the door, then down the stairs. I pause to look around at the top of the stairs. Besides the airport hangar, which is impressively tiny, and a few scattered planes, we’re surrounded by trees and mountains. I catch a glimpse of the ocean on the other side of the building.

  We get into an old beat-up car with fabric seats—something I couldn’t have pictured Griffin riding in until I actually see him fold himself down into it—and he turns out of the small airport lot and onto the road.

  “Can you tell me where we’re going?”

  “Can you be patient?” he asks.

  He winks, and it sets my nerves on edge. He’s acting weird. Like there’s a secret beneath his skin.

  “Griffin,” I say. “I don’t—”

  “We’re not going to a hospital,” he says.

  I press my lips together. The air is dry and cool, carrying the smell of salt off the water. The ocean is right there, and it’s such a startling shade of blue.

  “This bay is for ships,” Griffin says. “It’s shaped like a horseshoe, which protects it from the bigger waves. The island has a small population, but there’s a few chartered yachts that bring tourists here from Portugal. They mainly stick to those beaches.”

  I nod, staring at the water.

  He turns onto a dirt road, and it snakes toward the water. We go up and over a hill, along the edge of a cliff, and then back down. Dirt kicks up behind us. Griffin slows to a crawl until we get to a gated driveway. It’s at the very end of the road. You can’t get more private than this.

  I shiver, even though it’s a lot warmer here. The fever feels like a dream—or a nightmare.

  He types a code into the keypad, and the gate swings open.

  We drive for another five minutes before the road slants down, toward sea level, and a huge house appears. It seriously appears to rises out of the ground on our approach. The driveway curls around a fountain in the front of the house. Everything is pale orange tiles and cream stucco walls with pops of turquoise.

  Griffin shuts off the car and climbs out, and I follow suit. Before we reach the front door, it’s yanked open.

  A woman with fire-red hair stares at us, then smiles. “You must be Hadley. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

  I squint.

  She’s in… scrubs.

  I shake my head and take a step backward. Any hope—any excitement—sinks like a stone.

  “Really?” I ask Griffin.

  He grimaces, snagging my wrist before I can get too far away from him. “Listen,” he says. I start to shake my head again, and he growls, “Listen to me.”

  I glare at him.

  “This isn’t a hospital,” he says. “You’re not going to die here. We found a bone marrow donor, okay? There’s a doctor, a few nurses. They’ll get you better. They’re the best in the world.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I say.

  He leans down so we’re eye to eye. “I can’t tell if you’re happy or furious.”

  Definitely furious. “I don’t get a choice in this?”

  He presses his lips to my forehead. “I’m sorry.”

  That’s a no.

  I pull away from him and walk into the house. Dread laces up my torso, as tight as a corset. It holds my lungs hostage. The back of the house is made of glass, providing an uninterrupted view of the ocean.

  It’s open, airy, beautiful.

  I turn back to Griffin, and he mirrors how I feel: sick.

  “Ask me,” he says. “It’s time, Hadley. Ask me about my secrets. The things you’ve been too afraid to ask.”

  “No. I don’t care about any of that, Griffin—”

  “Hadley.”

  I squint at him. “Why are you doing this?”

  He looks away. “You need to understand what we’re dealing with. Okay? Just. Ask. Me.”

  I’m tempted to pick something up and smash it, just so this fear has somewhere to go.

  “No!” I yell. “Because I don’t fucking care, okay? You have a darkness in you, but I already figured on that because of all the bloodshed that follows you around. I’ve accepted it. So just shut up about it.”

  His entire body locks up, and I think I’ve stumped him. Was it not obvious that I trusted him? I’m feeling a little rotten about it now, since he brought me here without my consent. And at that, the panic builds back up inside me, coiling around the dread.

  “Are you staying with me?” I ask. That’s the only way this could be bearable.

  He comes forward, lifting my hands in his. “I’m going to find Santos. You’ll be safe here.”

  The dread erupts back into fury. I yank my hands away and shove him again. Like I thought before, he doesn’t so much as sway. Has my strength waned that much? I smack his chest, over and over, until he grabs my wrists.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I can barely catch my breath. I’m ashamed of how good it felt, expelling that anger. I can suddenly sympathize with Jackson, a man I’ve never met. Sometimes people just make you… snap.

  He doesn’t let go of my wrists and tows me closer. “I’m going to end our fear. I’ll come back for you, and you’ll be on your way to being healthy again. You’ll forgive me for this.”

  He kisses me, and I let him. He cups the side of my face so gently, like I’m breakable.

  I hope he can taste my disgust, the anger, the salt of my tears. I’m not sure how anyone could possibly survive this kind of pain. I didn’t even tell him that I was starting to fall in love with him.

  He pulls back. He’s going to leave me here.

  Something inside me cracks open. I grab the vase on the side table and chuck it at the wall, satisfied when it explodes. Griffin stops and turns back to me, eyes narrowed, and stalks toward me.

  “You see the fucking world through rose-colored glasses, Hadley. Reality check: you’re dying, and it’s going to be an ugly, drawn-out thing. This is our last option.”

  I back away from him, tears filling my eyes. “And here’s your reality check, Griffin Anders. You’re a fucking coward. Can’t see anything through until the end—including me. Stop chasing ghosts. Just stay.”

  He shakes his head and walks out the door, slamming it behind him.

  I don’t react for a minute, letting the noise bounce around the house. Any minute now, he’ll come back. He’ll open the door back up with a sheepish smile, apologize—

  That’s how I know my imagination is running wild. I doubt Griffin would apologize for much.

  The nurse comes out of a side room with a broom. She sweeps up the fragments of the vase, barely casting a glance in my direction. The guilt—I made a mess—swoops in, and I start forward. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I can clean it.”

  “This home is not yours to break,” she says in a low, stern voice. “Go look around. The doctor will be here soon for your first appointment.”

  Reality check, Hadley. He’s not coming back.

  18

  GRIFFIN

  I can’t leave. I get as far as the airport, then I call Smith. I tell him to take the night off. And I turn my ass around, back to Hadley.

  ‘You’re a coward,’ she said. Is that true? I’ve run into danger before, but I never stuck around for the hard stuff. I’ve saved so many lives, but I never had to walk them through a recovery. And yeah, on some level, Hadley’s cancer scares me. It’s out of my realm of knowledge. Healing her isn’t a quick fix like some trauma care. Pack a wound, wrap a bandage, give morphine—none of that would’ve helped her.

  I smack the steering wheel, irritated at myself. No one likes their flaws to be uncovered, but it stings more than I expected.

  I stop at the gate. It’s mid-motion, closing behind an
other car, and I realize it’s the doctor. And in my heart, I know I can’t burst in there and interrupt that moment.

  ‘Coward,’ Hadley whispers.

  The easy choice is to sit and wait.

  Eventually, the doctor’s car comes back up the driveway. The gate swings open to let him leave, and he rolls his window down when he gets even with me. “Mr. Anders.”

  “How is she?”

  He squints at me. “I always believe that recovery should be done surrounded by loved ones. I’m glad you’ve decided to stay.”

  I avoid his gaze.

  “We’re going to go ahead with the radiation and stem cell transplant within the next week, as soon as her blood tests come back. You got her here in time, judging from her symptoms.”

  I nod.

  “You know she’s had it for a while?”

  I look back over at him. “How long is a while?”

  He shrugs. “According to her medical history, she was diagnosed almost five years ago.”

  My stomach bottoms out. That’s near the time I made the decision to not go back. “Treatment?”

  The doctor shakes his head. “It was chronic,” he explains. “Beyond keeping an eye on it, and some medication, there wasn’t much they could do. She had radiation and chemo a few years ago, first in New York City and then in Ashleigh. It wasn’t until this past year that it worsened. Her regular oncologist had written that she was in the blastic phase.”

  I shake my head. “Can I get that in English?”

  He chuckles. “Aren’t you in the medical profession?”

  “Sorry, Doc, I’m not versed in cancer lingo.” I scowl at him.

  “Blastic phase is the last and final stage of chronic myeloid cancer. It’s when the blast cells—the abnormal ones—have increased to a critical level. It can be on par with acute leukemia that children get. A transplant is the only true cure—if it works.” He glances at his watch. “I must be going now, Mr. Anders. I can keep you updated if you would like. Off the record, of course.”