Touching Eternity (Touch Series 1.5)

by Airicka Phoenix

  “Do you remember where we left off?” He reached across her and flipped open her History textbook.

  Amalie tilted her body a fraction to the right, away from him, but the sleeve of his pale pink dress shirt grazed her shoulder. She barely suppressed her shudder.

  It wasn’t the right page. It wasn’t even the right chapter, but Amalie kept her mouth shut as Tomas began.

  The ice in his tone was paralyzing. He prowled the floors behind her, rambling off something they hadn’t covered, but Amalie wasn’t listening anyway. The tension in the air was solidifying. She could almost taste the fury and rage clashing through him, coming off him in waves. Each one slammed into her back, seeping into her skin until she was sure she would never feel warmth again. She sat trembling in her seat, hands clutched between her thighs. Her teeth chattered as she stared unseeingly at the words scrawled across the pages—they could have been Pig Latin for all the sense they made.

  Three hours of this went by. Tomas talked. Amalie sat and stared at her books. Every so often, he would growl a question out at her, to which she really couldn’t answer. It took all her willpower not to steal peeks at the clock, not to fidget.

  Across the room, Derek never moved. He could have been part of the furniture. If it wasn’t for Tomas keeping his hands to himself, she would have forgotten he was even there.

  “Are you listening, Amalie?”

  Amalie blinked and the words on her textbook snapped back into focus. She cleared her throat. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then what did I—?”

  A soft knock filled the room, interrupting Tomas and his incessant passing. All eyes turned to the door just as it opened. A guard with shortly cropped hair the color of soot poked his head inside. He surveyed the occupants before focusing on Derek.

  “Meeting in the barracks,” he said.

  Derek rose to his feet, eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. “I’m on duty. I have been given direct orders—”

  “Young says it’s an emergency and all guards must be present.”

  Derek sighed. He turned to Amalie. There was something in his eyes, hesitation, annoyance, frustration.

  “I’ll be back,” he promised.

  Don’t go! Please don’t go!

  He must have seen it in her eyes, in the way she tensed all over. His gaze shot over her head to Tomas. They hardened, chips of flint against the slash of his face. “I will return quickly.”

  Tomas said nothing, but there was a change in him. It was carefully masked, but the fear was gone and his posture was too controlled. A new sliver of fear coursed through Amalie as Derek stalked to the door and followed the other guard out the door.

  Amalie stared after him, not really seeing him leave, but hearing the echo of the door closing like a crash through her bones. Seconds passed, each one dragging into infinity. She was no longer breathing.

  The first blow came in the form of a smack upside the back of her head. The explosion shook the cavities of her skull and snapped her teeth together. Then, the same hand returned to close in her hair, yanking her head back.

  “What did you tell him?” Tomas snarled, inches from her face.

  “I…I…nothing!” she squeaked, her heart a mess of fear.

  “He wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t opened your mouth!” He shook her the way a cat would a mouse. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing!” She sobbed, clutching at his wrist, desperately trying to pry his fingers lose.

  “You just made it worse for yourself,” he hissed into the side of her face. “I am going to make everything I’ve ever done seem like a picnic. I am going to show you what happens when you run your mouth!”

  She was dragged out of her seat. The chair was kicked aside. It skidded across the hardwood floor and split the room with its deafening crash as it struck the floor. The back of her neck was manacled by fat fingers and she was shoved face down on the desk.

  The hard surface cushioned her cheekbone, cobwebbing thin threads of pain up through her face. Tears blinded her. Papers tore as she struggled. They fluttered to the ground, abandoned snowflakes beneath their feet. The edge of her textbook pierced her already churning abdomen. Her whimper was ignored.

  “I thought we understood each other,” Tomas panted, planting his hand between her shoulder blades and pinning her in place. “You keep your mouth shut and I won’t tell your father about any relapses. You clearly weren’t paying attention in class when we had that discussion. Maybe you need a refresher!”

  The stale stench of sweat and fear thickened in the air, smothering her oxygen. She flailed, struggling to gasp around the hand constricting her lungs, flattening her to the cold surface. Her palm caught the buckle on his briefcase. The sharp sting came and was instantly forgotten when her fingers closed around something slim and cold and sharp. Her stomach fisted. It lurched. She ceased her thrashing as her ears rang.

  Do it! Do it!”

  Amalie’s breaths came out in pants, sharp, hard puffs that seemed to echo through the room. Behind her, Tomas grunted. His free hand, still roughly unhitching her skirt from where it was trapped between her body and the desk, became less aggressive. The weight pressed into her spine lifted by a fraction.

  Do it! Do it now!

  The tremors raking through her this time had nothing to do with the crippling terror tearing through her like the northern winds. Her fingers tightened around the pen, mirroring the clench in her gut. Her skin crawled where his clammy fingers grazed her bare thigh. His fingers left a wet trail over her skin. Her stomach revolted. For a second, she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the urge to vomit away.

  “It’s a fifteen minute walk from here to the barracks,” he hissed, burning the side of her face with the sickly sweet stench of candy. Her stomach gave another heave. “And another fifteen minutes back. A lot can happen in thirty minutes.”

  Amalie couldn’t have agreed with him more as she willed herself to relax, to count every breath. Time seemed to click in crisp intervals. It reminded her of the cocking of a gun. Any second it would shatter the silence with its deafening bang.

  Instead, it was the mute click of the door opening. It was the sharp inhale from Tomas. It was Isaiah’s stunned face. The pen was fisted in her hand and she was twisting. Her weapon rose over her head and came plummeting down. It met its mark, sinking into the soft tissues of Tomas’ right eye. A hot fountain of blood gushed from the wound, raining over them both in a crimson flood. Her vicious scream was swallowed by his howl of agony as he shoved away from her, slapping both hands over his face as he staggered back. He clawed at the offending object jutting from the center of his face, ripping it out with a sick squishy sound.

  “My eye!” he wailed, his voice not quiet human. “My eye!”

  His foot caught on her upended chair and he went sprawling across the floor, still screeching, still clawing at his face now a horrific shade of red. His dress shirt, once a delicate pink, the color of an infant’s cheeks, was now a frightening shade of scarlet. Blood oozed without end through his fingers, pooling around his head, staining her floor.

  “Amalie! Look at me! At me!”

  It wasn’t until he was blocking her sight of Tomas that she realized he had her arms and was shaking her. Her head lulled back and forth, making her aware that she was no longer in control of her legs, that she was on the ground staring blankly at the monster writhing like a worm and that Isaiah was kneeling in front of her.

  There was horror behind his eyes, bright against his ashen face. He seemed incapable of words as he stared at her.

  He thinks I’m a monster, she realized, feeling the first spear of sensation rocket through the numbness. Shame, white-hot washed through her as memories of him frozen in the doorway carved into her. Bile clogged her throat. There was no way he hadn’t seen what was happening. He would blame her. He would tell her she had brought it on herself. She had asked for it. Gabriel Tomas was a good, decent man. He was a wonderful husband and an attentive father to two ver
y bright daughters — one was her age. It was all the things her father had told her when she’d confessed to him. He had accused her of falsifying information to tarnish Tomas’ reputation. Isaiah would say the same. He would tell her father and her father…

  Amalie threw up her breakfast, narrowly missing Isaiah’s lap. He pulled away, gathering her hair as he did so, sweeping the long waves back from her flushed face.

  Tomas was no longer shrieking. His low, pathetic whimpers were lost in the ocean roaring between her ears. Her bones creaked as she fought not to meet the hardwood floor with her face.

  “Amalie?” Isaiah reached for her when her body ceased convulsing.

  She jerked away. “Don’t.” Her voice drew out in a croak.

  He didn’t seem to hear her or he chose to ignore it, because the next second, with great gentleness, as though she were made of glass, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. He set her down.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Which time? She wanted to ask. Instead, she averted her face. Go away, she wanted to tell him. Leave me alone. But the formulation of words had begun to fail her. The crashing plummet of adrenaline had left her exhausted and woozy. She would have given anything to crawl under the bed and sleep.

  “Amalie!” His voice was sharp, as hard as the fingers he closed around her upper arms. “Damn it! Answer me!”

  “Go away! Go away!” The second time, the words burst out in a half-scream. “Go away!”

  “I won’t!” he snarled back, giving her a shake. “I won’t leave you!”

  She shoved him. It took all her strength, plus some, but she managed to plant her fists against his shoulders and push. The motions did nothing, but he did release her.

  “Why not?” she hissed, glowering up at him. “It never stopped you before.”

  The angry washed out of his face. “I never wanted that.”

  The sharp crack of laughter that escaped her was cold, brittle like ice incased twigs under careless feet. “There are a lot of things I don’t want.” She yanked her arm out of his touch. “Like your hands on me.”

  His head jerked back as though he’d been smacked. “Amalie—”

  By miracle of chance, Amalie found the feeling in her legs and rose. He didn’t try to stop her as she walked stiffly to the bathroom and closed the door between them.

  Amalie closed her eyes and leaned into the cool surface. She slid boneless to the ground and pulled her knees to her chin. Her entire body convulsed in cold shudders.

  Chapter 16

  Garrison

  Garrison had just replaced the frame on Abigail’s picture when the knock resounded through his office. With years of practice, he nimbly slid the photo beneath a stack of folders, sat back in his chair and summoned the intruder inside. It only took one look into flush-faced guard to have him out of his seat again.

  “What happened?

  Panting, the guard jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Sir, Your daughter—”

  In a handful of strides, Garrison was across the room and shoving past him into the hallway. The guard stuttered something, but Garrison was already half-running through the corridor, lab coat white wings flapping behind him. His hands dug into the pockets of his coat. His fingers curled around the syringe he kept there. He was only vaguely aware of footsteps hurrying to catch up.

  He should never have allowed Amalie the freedom, he realized, mentally kicking himself. He should have known it was too soon. She hadn’t been ready. Lord knew what he’d be walking into when he arrived.

  But Amalie wasn’t in the room. Amalie was nowhere in sight. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of Isaiah, straddling an unconscious and bleeding Tomas, one hand fisted in the other man’s shirt, the other raised, fisted in the air, knuckles bloody. Garrison wasn’t sure what he was witnessing when the first sickening crunch of bones resounded throughout the room, followed abruptly by another. Isaiah’s fist was a blur, pounding mercilessly into the raw flesh of Tomas’ face. Tomas never so much as uttered a sound, and for one terrifying moment, Garrison thought the professor was dead.

  “Isaiah!” He rushed into the room. “Get him off!” he growled at the guard standing uselessly in the doorway.

  The guard blinked as though Garrison had spoken Russian. But it set in quickly and he hurried to drag Isaiah off Tomas. The professor slumped to the ground, his face a jagged mess of pounded meat. Blood stained his clothes and smeared in a crimson puddle around him. He looked to have lost a horrible match with a gorilla. His lip was swollen, his nose visibly broken and there was something wrong with his right eye. The eyelid was crusted with thick globs of blood, membranes and oozing what looked like tar. Something about it made his insides churn, but he would deal with that later.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Garrison rounded on Isaiah, still being restrained by the guard, Mathew, if memory served him correctly.

  “He was on her!” Isaiah spat, blue eyes pits of ebony. “That bastard was…” he trailed off, his chest heaving, his nostrils flaring. His lips curled back over clenched teeth. “He had her on the desk! He was touching her!”

  For a moment, Garrison couldn’t wrap his mind around what he was being told. The words made no sense, because in order for it to make sense, it would mean that the man he trusted, a colleague and friend, was doing something unthinkable.

  “You’re mistaken—”

  Those blue eyes shot up to his face, blazing with flames from hell. “I saw him!” he hissed through his teeth. “I walked in here and he was on top of her!”

  The blow was excruciating. The betrayal burned. He stared at the boy he raised as though he couldn’t fathom what he was seeing.

  Isaiah wasn’t a liar. He had no reason to fabricate such a horrendous lie. What could he possibly gain? But then that would mean it was true.

  His gaze dropped to Tomas, unmoving except the odd muscle spasm. He was still alive. His chest fluctuated with his uneven in takes of air. Garrison’s gut wrenched. Bile sat thick at the back of his throat. He turned away.

  “What are you doing here, Isaiah? Where’s Derek?”

  Isaiah’s expression took on one of bafflement. “Did you hear me? He was—”

  “I heard you!” His voice rasped, projecting his age for one horrifying moment. Garrison closed his eyes, schooling himself. “I heard,” he repeated, opening his eyes and pinning Isaiah. “What are you doing here?”

  “Get off me!” Isaiah shook Mathew off, straightened his blood spattered shirt. Fury rippled off him. “He told me to stay with Amalie—”

  Garrison frowned, his suspicion prickling. “Why?”

  Confusion creased the center of Isaiah’s brows. He stared at Garrison for a long moment. “I don’t know.”

  At their feet, Tomas groaned. Garrison peered down into the man’s face, butchered and bloodied.

  “Get him out of here,” he told Mathew. “Take him downstairs. Have the car brought around. I will take him to the lab.”

  Mathew inclined his head. He motioned for someone behind Garrison. Another set of boots clumped forward and Shane knelt down to help Mathew heft Tomas off the ground.

  Garrison didn’t watch as his friend was dragged away. But he turned on his heel and started after them. He paused at the door, but he never glanced back.

  “Stay with her,” he said to Isaiah.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” came the response, each word hissed through clenched teeth.

  Isaiah stood with his face set, his hands fisted and his chest rapidly rising and falling when Garrison forced himself to meet the younger man’s gaze. There was fire in his eyes, hot and unhampered. He glowered at Garrison.

  “You’ll need this.” He dug into his pocket and removed the syringe.

  Isaiah made no effort to reach for it. “I won’t.”

  Garrison started to argue. He opened his mouth, but just as quickly shut it and left, too exhausted to argue. He had bigger things to worry about at the moment.

 
Mathew and Shane were just stepping out the front door when he made it to the foyer. They were half dragging, half carrying an unconscious Tomas between them. The limo awaited in the curved driveway. Garrison waited patiently as Tomas was loaded onto the floor of the car.

  “Get someone to clean up the mess,” he told Mathew when they finished. “And have Lew and Bruce fetch Tomas’ family. They’ll want to be present for what I have to say.”

  Mathew inclined his head, but Garrison was already slipping into the car and slamming the door shut behind him. The driver pulled out of the driveway. Garrison stared at his friend, a battered mess at his feet and felt nothing. There was no anger, no sadness, just an impassive blankness that scared most people but was oddly comforting to him.