Eternal

by Kristi Cook

  Sighing resignedly, I reached for the shampoo, squeezing an untidy lump into my palm. It smelled good—vaguely tropical—but I cringed as I ran it through my lopsided, burnt-off hair. I wondered just how bad it looked.

  * * *

  “It’s pretty bad,” Aidan confirmed, once I’d finally gotten out of the tub and pulled on a tank top and a pair of pajama pants. “I think you’ll have to get it cut. But as luck would have it, you’re in Paris. Get some sleep, and then we’ll find someone to take care of it.”

  I just nodded, exhausted as I climbed into the bed that would be mine come fall. I’d have to do something about the duvet cover, I decided, snuggling beneath it. It was way too masculine. The room needed something brighter—maybe a sage green in shantung silk.

  My mind was just beginning to drift off when Aidan leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to my lips. I reached up to cup his cheek, wondering suddenly what it would feel like with stubble. It was hard to imagine him any differently, since he remained perpetually unchanged.

  He turned his face toward my hand, his lips against my palm. And then he froze. “You’re bleeding,” he said.

  I sat up. “Where?”

  “Your arm. It’s deep. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have sent you straight down to Dr. Sophie. She was having so much fun down there with antiseptic and bandages that I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I could heal minor wounds myself.”

  I examined the arm in question. He was right; there was a gash on the inside edge of my right biceps, about two inches long. I must have opened it up when I’d scrubbed myself clean.

  I shoved down the sheets and duvet, noting with a frown that I’d bled all over them. “Crap. I need to strip the bed and get these in the wash before they stain.”

  Aidan laid a gentle hand on my shoulder, restraining me. “Don’t worry about it, not now. Here, just pull it back and I’ll get you a quilt or something.” He went to the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and dug around, then returned with a heavy chenille blanket. “This should keep you warm enough. Now, let me see your arm.”

  He sat down beside me, running his fingers lightly along the wound. “I’ll take care of this,” he said, his voice soft. “Go on. Lie back down.”

  I was too tired to resist, even if I’d wanted to. Besides, his method was way more appealing than stinging antiseptics and Band-Aids. Scooting down beneath the blanket, I settled my head on the plump, goose-down pillow and waited, my body taut with anticipation.

  First he wiped away the blood with something cold and wet, dabbing gently, until the wound was entirely clean. And then he bent his head, his tongue against my skin now, making short, silky strokes that caused gooseflesh to erupt all over my body.

  “Oh my God,” I breathed. “Do you have any idea how good that feels?” A calm seemed to wash over me, my body relaxing against the soft mattress as he continued to lick me, his strokes longer now, the pressure increased as my eyelids grew heavy.

  “There. It’s healed,” he murmured at last, but his mouth didn’t leave my skin. Instead, he trailed kisses up toward my shoulder, across my collarbone, down to the dip between my breasts.

  I arched against him, clasping the back of his head. My fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, guiding him lower, toward the exposed skin between the hem of my tank top and the waistband of my pajama pants.

  “Violet,” he protested with a groan, but his mouth obeyed. “This is . . .” Kiss. “We shouldn’t . . .” Kiss.

  And then, inexplicably, I yawned—a deep, breathless yawn wrought from sheer and utter exhaustion.

  With a low chuckle, Aidan laid his head on my belly. “You need to sleep.”

  I nodded, stifling a second yawn as I did so. “Did everyone else go to bed already?”

  “I think so, once they got their bandages.” His fingers traced a path down my right side. “They’re exhausted, just like you.”

  “What are you going to do all night?”

  “I’ll stay with you for a little while, but then I’m going to see Nicole. We need to discuss her expectations from here on out. I won’t be gone long.”

  “You’re sure it’s safe?” I asked, stroking his hair. It was damp from his shower and back to its usual golden color.

  “Entirely so. Should I make an appointment for you somewhere while I’m out? For your hair? For first thing tomorrow, maybe? You and your friends can have a girls’ spa day or something like that.”

  “Sure,” I said with a sigh. “That sounds nice, actually. When do you think we’ll go back home?”

  “I don’t know—that’s why I need to speak to Nicole. How many days do you need in New York to prepare for our trip to England?”

  “We’re still going?” I asked drowsily.

  “Of course. I promised I’d take you, remember?”

  I just nodded.

  Lifting his head from my stomach, he scooted up in the bed and fitted himself beside me. Heart and soul, he said inside my head.

  Heart and soul, I answered back, and then drifted off with a smile on my lips.

  * * *

  I opened the front door of Aidan’s town house in Manhattan—my town house, technically speaking—to find Matthew standing there, his hands thrust into his pockets, a messenger bag across one shoulder.

  His eyes widened when he saw me. “I’m still not used to the hair,” he said, shaking his head.

  I reached a hand up to my short, silky bob. “Yeah, me either.”

  “It looks good, though. It suits you.”

  “Thanks. What are you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you till tomorrow at the airport.”

  “I just needed to talk to you about something; it won’t take long. Can I come in?”

  “Sure, of course.” I moved aside. “Sorry about the mess. I’m still packing, if you can believe it. I’m just not sure what to take. The weather’s apparently really fickle this time of year in Dorset—are you bringing a warm jacket, or just a raincoat?”

  He didn’t move beyond the marble-tiled foyer. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. I’m not going with you to England.”

  “You’re not? But I thought . . . I mean, you said—”

  “I know what I said, but I was wrong. You don’t need me. You’ll be fine with Aidan.”

  “Oo-okay,” I said, drawing it out, trying to figure out what had caused this change of heart. Because when we’d left Paris three days ago, he’d said he was coming with us.

  Everything had been settled. Aidan had gone to Mrs. Girard and told her that her Dauphin was going on vacation, whether she liked it or not. He’d held up his end of the bargain, and now it was up to her to reestablish the Tribunal. She could get along without him just fine for a couple of weeks, he’d insisted.

  And Matthew, in turn, had maintained that he couldn’t possibly let me go to England without him, not when he wasn’t one hundred percent certain that there was no longer a threat.

  So we’d agreed that he should come. He wasn’t going to stay at Brompton Park with us—that would have been too weird, a teacher crashing his students’ grad trip. Instead, Matthew had booked a room in the nearest inn. The Cock’s Crow, or something silly sounding like that, an old coaching inn above a tavern a couple of kilometers from the estate. Far enough away to give us our privacy, but close enough if a threat presented itself.

  And now, the day before we were set to leave, he decided he wasn’t going? It didn’t make sense—not at all. There had to be more, some explanation—

  “Your vision,” I said. Aha. “The one you wanted to replay, that you didn’t want to talk about. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You think something bad is going to happen if you come with us.”

  He nodded. “Something like that.”

  “Well, isn’t there anything else we can do to prevent it? What exactly did you see?”

  His gaze met mine, his expression guarded. “It’s better if I don’t tell you, Violet. I know I say this way too o
ften, but you’ve just got to trust me on this, okay? It’s going to be fine. I want you to go and have a good time. You’ll be safe. I promise you.”

  I shook my head, an uncomfortable feeling niggling at my brain. “I don’t like this. Should we cancel the trip?”

  “No, definitely not.” He rubbed his jaw with the palm of one hand, his eyes suddenly damp.

  What the hell was going on? Without really thinking about it, I started to reach out to him psychically, hoping to better understand what was going on.

  “Don’t, Violet. I won’t let you. Just . . . come here.” Abruptly, he held out his arms to me, and I allowed him to gather me in his embrace, his chin resting on the top of my head. “Go to England and have a great time with your friends, okay?” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Just . . . be happy.”

  “I’d be happier with you there,” I said, surprised to realize that it was the truth. The days we’d spent together in Paris—me, Matthew, Aidan, and my friends—had felt strangely perfect, despite any initial awkwardness. So much so that I’d actually considered asking Aidan if Matthew could rent a room from us, come fall.

  Because I had to admit that I felt complete with the two of them on either side of me—boyfriend and big brother, lover and protector. “You won’t change your mind?” I pleaded.

  “Do me a favor and don’t make this any harder on me than it already is, okay, Violet? This is the way it’s got to be.”

  I nodded. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Charlie, does it?”

  “Nope.” He took a deep breath and then pressed a chaste kiss to my forehead before releasing me. “Okay, one last thing. I need to talk to Aidan.”

  “Uh-oh. Why?” I eyed him suspiciously, imagining some super embarrassing talk about being “safe” and “using protection” while staying at Brompton Park.

  “Clearly not for the reasons you’re thinking. It’s just something between him and me, Violet. I’d really appreciate it if you’d respect that.”

  “You’re making this awfully difficult, you know that?” I let out a sigh. “Fine. I’ll go get him. You want to wait in the living room? I’ve got to run over to Patsy’s apartment to pick up some stuff anyway. I’ll give you guys some privacy.”

  “Thanks,” he said, lifting the messenger bag’s strap over his head.

  “Okay, I’ll see you later, then.” I paused at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting on the end of the curved banister. Something was keeping me there, watching him, as if I were trying to solve a riddle.

  But it was no use. His consciousness was closed off to me, his face entirely unreadable. I turned and started up the stairs.

  “Hey, Violet?” he called out, and I stopped short, turning toward him expectantly. There was a pregnant pause, our gazes locked. “You’re a remarkable Sâbbat,” he said at last. “And an even more remarkable young woman. You’re everything I hoped you’d be. Thank you.”

  My heart soared at the compliment. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I said with a smile. “Go on. I’ll send Aidan right down.”

  32 ~ Prodigal Son

  I glanced up at the portrait on the wall and then back to Aidan, who was standing beside me. The boy in the portrait was wearing tight beige pants with a ruffly shirt and a cravat, a striped vest, and a dark blue coat. Tall, shiny boots came up to his knees. The boy beside me wore only faded jeans and a simple white T-shirt, his feet bare.

  Their wildly different attire hinted at the centuries that separated them. And yet somehow, inexplicably, they were one and the same.

  “This is so surreal,” I said, shaking my head. “You know that, right?”

  He shrugged. “Imagine how it feels for me. I still can’t believe you’re here. It’s like . . . my two existences have merged or something.”

  “In a good way?” I asked hopefully.

  “Of course. Though I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t have liked me very much if you’d known me then. I was an arrogant ass.”

  I took a step toward the portrait, studying his likeness more closely now. “You look pretty cocky, don’t you? Like you owned the world. Like you were too good for everything and everyone.”

  “I think you pretty much nailed it. I sat for this one on my seventeenth birthday. I vaguely remember being annoyed.”

  “I like the outfit, though. What are those, breeches?”

  “God, no,” he said, sniffing derisively. “They’re pantaloons. Far more fashionable than breeches.”

  “Well, maybe you could put on your pantaloons later and parade around a bit.” I waggled my brows suggestively. “Who knows? You might get lucky. Dressed like that, who could resist you?”

  “I do miss having a valet,” he said, sounding wistful.

  “Really?” I asked, surprised.

  “No,” he answered with a laugh. “I’m kidding. But you should feel free to help me dress for bed, if you’d like. You know, to make your visit to Brompton Park more authentic.”

  “Yeah, because a girl valet is so authentic. Nice try, though.”

  “Hey,” Tyler called out from the bottom of the stairs. “Will you two stop gawking at the pictures of his lordship and get your asses down here? Max and Joshua are back with the beer and chips!”

  “Beer and chips in the dining room at Brompton Park?” Aidan asked, shaking his head. “What has this world come to? Old Chiffers must be rolling over in his grave.”

  “Chiffers?”

  “He was our butler, a fine old chap. Come. Let’s go raise a glass of ale with our peers.”

  Laughing, I grabbed his hand and pulled him along beside me, down the wide, marble staircase and across the enormous great hall.

  “I’ll go see if they need any help in the kitchen,” Aidan said, releasing my hand. “I don’t want them breaking anything.”

  Cece looked up when I walked into the dining room. “Hey, where were you and Aidan?”

  “Up in the minstrels’ gallery,” I said, pulling out a heavy chair and taking a seat. “There’re some portraits of Aidan up there. You should go see them.”

  “You mean besides the one we saw online? The one with his sisters?”

  “Yeah, a few more. There’s one from his seventeenth birthday where he looks exactly the same as now. You know that mark on his face, just below his right eye?”

  Cece nodded. “Yeah, that little scar.”

  “It’s there in the portrait. He says he got it the day before his birthday, fencing with his sister. Without a helmet,” I added. “Isn’t that creepy?”

  “Well, only because it was, like, a hundred years ago.”

  “Yeah, and he still has it now.”

  “Hey, guys,” Marissa said, striding in. “Where’s everybody else? I thought I heard Tyler squawking that Max and Joshua were back with the food.”

  “They are; they’re about to bring it in.” Cece hurried over to the door that opened out onto the great hall. “Sophie!” she called out, then turned back toward us. “She said she was going to the morning room. Isn’t that just across the hall?”

  “You’re asking me?” Marissa answered. “I’m going to need a map to find my way around.”

  “Food!” Joshua bellowed, bursting into the room with Tyler and Max trailing behind him. “Get it while it’s hot.”

  “And even better, beer!” Tyler added. “We’re actually legal here in jolly old England. Can you believe that shit?”

  “Kind of takes the fun out of it,” Sophie said, wandering in just in time. “It’s going to make our twenty-first birthdays so anticlimactic.”

  “Oh, I’ll make sure it’s climactic for you, baby,” Tyler said, wrapping his arms around Sophie from behind.

  Marissa wrinkled her nose. “Eww, you did not just say that.”

  Aidan came through the door carrying a stack of plates and silverware. “Careful with this stuff,” he warned. “It’s my grandmother’s china.”

  “Your grandma’s china?” Cece shrieked. “Are you crazy—it’s got to
be ancient! We can’t eat on that. How’d you get it, anyway? You’d think it’d be locked up or something.”

  “Oh, it was.” Aidan nodded gravely. “But I know the china safe’s combination. Anyway, who better to use it than us? And besides, this is a special occasion.”

  “Hear, hear,” Max said, raising a bottle of beer.

  “Everyone gather ’round,” Tyler ordered while Joshua handed out the beers. “A toast,” he continued. “And then we eat, because I’m fucking starving here.”

  Max nodded his agreement, an arm wrapped possessively around Marissa’s waist. “Nicely said, Ty. Nicely said.”

  “To us,” I said, raising my bottle.

  “To us,” Cece echoed. “The Winterhaven Warriors.”

  Marissa raised her bottle. “To Sophie, our valedictorian.”

  “Smartest chick I ever met,” Tyler added enthusiastically. “To my roomdog Max and his band—what is it you call yourselves?—who finally got themselves a real gig.”

  “The Screamers,” Max answered with a grin. “Next month at the Mercury Lounge.”

  “To our elegant host, the Viscount Brompton,” Sophie called out. “And his grandma’s china.”

  Laughing, I glanced over at Aidan—who looked marvelously inelegant in his rumpled jeans and T-shirt. “To Matthew Byrne,” he joined in, catching me by surprise. My heart twisted a little bit with regret. “Otherwise known as Dr. Hottie,” he continued, “who wishes he could be here with us tonight.”

  Beside me, Sophie elbowed me in the ribs. “Hey, you told Aidan that we call him that?”

  My cheeks burned guiltily. “What can I say? Occasionally I slip up.”

  “To Kate,” Cece said, sounding solemn now.

  “And Jack,” Sophie added.

  “And . . . I think that’s everyone, right?” Cece raised her bottle high in the air. “Cheers!”

  “Cheers!” we echoed in unison, clinking our bottles with gusto.

  I glanced around the room at my friends as they scrambled for seats, thinking that I was perhaps the luckiest person alive. I took a mental picture of the moment, a still life of friendship captured on the canvas of my mind.