He's like a work of art – every Immortal is – but he is polished and pristine, his skin soft and white, his hair vibrant, his eyes the colour of the frozen sea. I've seen him this close before of course, but I've never truly stopped to look, or to notice that his Auctorita blood is prominent; it swims in his eyes.
I feel a burning desire deep within my chest, not just for him physically, but for him to be mine and mine alone. If Lucrezia wasn't his sister, I could understand now her desperate reluctance to let him go, to let him spend time in the company of others. With him here beneath me, his attention focussed solely on me, I can't imagine ever having to share him with anyone else, and the thought of leaving him makes me feel violently sick.
'I love you.' I tell him again, brushing my lips against his, feeling rather than seeing him smile. I let his hands free to wander across my back, to hold my hips, to touch my face, hair, legs, hands, to allow him to consume me.
I lose myself in him entirely, forgetting everything else; Lorna, Sir Alec, Lucrezia, Tia, the Institute, the Auctoritas – all the ugliness and unfairness is cleansed from my mind in favour of him.
I want everything about him; his eyes on mine, his voice in my ear, his skin touching me, his weight on top of me, beneath me, around me.
But above all things, I do not want to let go of his hand.
*
To lay in Malachy's arms beneath sweet-smelling bedsheets, my legs entangled with his, his arm draped carelessly across my hip as he nuzzles my neck behind me, is like no feeling I've ever experienced before.
I feel complete, satisfied, as if I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. If it were possible and I died right now, I would be dying the happiest I've ever been. I could say, without question, that I did everything I wanted to do and more. That I did what I thought I would never do – I found the one for me.
I cast my mind back to my first days at the Institute, my first impression of Malachy, and I splutter with laughter.
'What's so funny?' He smiles, peering over my shoulder, his blond hair scruffy and soft.
'When I first met you, I hated you.' I snort, recalling his arrogance and the way he could get so far under my skin. He grins, tracing the palm of my hand with his fingertips.
'I wasn't too fond of you either.' He smirks.
'I thought you were so arrogant,' I shake my head. 'Stunning, but arrogant.' I smile, turning over to face him so that my lips are inches from his. He plays absent mindedly with strands of my hair as he studies my face. I know he's taking in every inch of my appearance to store in his memory for when I'm gone. I know this because I'm doing exactly the same.
'And I thought you were a jumped up, scruffy little junkie from the slums of London.' He grins, laughing as I playfully punch his shoulder.
'I was, actually,' I admit, laughing with him. 'Still, we can't all have such a privileged upbringing.' I smirk sarcastically, but he he scoffs and rolls his eyes.
'Yeah, privileged. Learning six different languages at the age of four and having everything about my life governed from the clothes I wore to the way I walked.'
'I think whoever governed your fashion sense did a pretty good job.' I smile.
'No, this is all me,' He gestures to his wardrobe. 'You should have seen some of the stuff my old tailor used to make me wear,' He shudders. 'As soon as I left his care I threw all that shit out.'
It still sounds funny to hear Malachy drop his upper-class accent and talk like a regular person; it's a side of him I've rarely seen. It's just a shame I won't get to see more of it.
Forcing myself to crawl out from under Malachy's sheets is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Leaving his warmth, stepping out of the range of his familiar scent – my body screams in protest at me. I dress quickly, as does he, finding a new shirt in his wardrobe and casting aside his old, shredded one.
'You're quite violent, Miss Ryder.' He smirks, but there is a sadness tinged to his tone.
'Only when I want something.' I smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes.
A silence pans out, neither of us knowing what the next step will be. I feel like crying, like literally bursting into tears and flinging myself at his feet. I feel like running to Sir Alec's office and professing my love for Malachy, begging him to spare me the pain of walking away.
All I know is that once I leave this room, there is no turning back, and there is nothing in this world I would rather do less.
Malachy meets me in the middle of the room as I throw my arms around his neck, holding onto him as though my life depends on it. He supports my weight, his forearms wrapped around my hips as I bury my face in his hair.
'I love you, Eve.' He sighs, stroking my back soothingly.
'I love you.' I cling to the ripples of his shirt, my fingers like claws.
'I'll try to hold them off for as long as I can.' He promises me, though we both know there's little he'll be able to do. In fact, he'll probably be hauled off for questioning himself.
'Say whatever you have to against me,' I tell him firmly. 'Say whatever you have to to keep yourself out of trouble. Lay all the blame at my feet, do you understand?'
He nods sadly, holding his breath, trying his hardest to keep himself together for my sake.
It's early morning, the sun is almost ready to break over the horizon, and my time is running out.
I force myself to break free of Malachy's hold, uncurling my fingers from his, and cross the room to the door. I step outside into the cool, dimly lit corridor and turn, standing as close to Mal as possible without touching him.
The time for touching him is over now.
'Don't forget me.' I speak quietly into the empty corridor. He shakes his head violently.
'I promise that if you're captured, when I'm Auctorita, I'll free you. And if you're not, I'll make them stop hunting you. You have my word.'
I contemplate this; in three hundred years time, everything will be different. Malachy and I will be strangers, him an Auctorita, I – most probably – a shell-shocked ex-prisoner of the Confine.
He'll free Aleks, too, but perhaps even she won't end up close to Malachy again. Perhaps by that time, Mal will have found somebody else.
Whatever happens, I don't hold a lot of hope that I'll ever be with Malachy in this way again.
I take one last look at his perfect face, capturing each individual feature like a snap shot in my mind.
'I love you.' He tells me for the hundredth time and I nod sadly, comforted that these will be his last words to me.
'I love you, too.'
I force myself to turn away from him, force my weak legs to carry me away, even as my mind screams at me to turn back. I fight an epic battle with myself, torn in two different directions.
As I near the corner, I turn back to catch one last glimpse of him, leaning against the door frame, his expression one of utter despair, the struggle within his mind evident on his face.
I know it's too much for him to bear – yet another source of heartbreak in a life which has already suffered far too much – but for my sake, he keeps his blue eyes fixed on me.
As I use every last ounce of my strength and self-restraint to walk around the corner and out of his sight, I know I must now push Malachy from my thoughts. I need to be fully focussed if Lorna and I are to escape the Institute without being caught. I need my head, but I leave my heart with him – where it belongs.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I sit alone on my window ledge as dawn breaks over the horizon. The Institute – as well as the world outside – is silent, and it feels as though I'm the only one here. The sky glows a warm orange, slowly leaking into brilliant red as the small, pale moon descends and the sun rises.
It's strange how the world looks different when you know you won't have long in it; more fragile somehow, more beautiful. It makes my heart ache in my chest, but not as painfully as when I think about leaving Malachy, which I'll be doing in less than an hour's time. I'm not really sure how I'm going to manage it; even
with Lorna at my side, it'll be hard turning my back on the Institute and jumping the fence, knowing that once I'm over it, I can't come back.
Malachy will be lost to me forever, then, along with any hope of a peaceful and harmonious eternity.
I dress silently in dark colours, choosing appropriate footwear for what I suspect will be a very long cross country run. I have no idea what lies in wait beyond the Institute's border, and no way of finding out exactly where we are. The plan at this stage is like an unfinished bridge, all I can do is throw myself off the end and hope for the best.
I leave all my belongings behind with ease; everything I own is materialistic: clothes, make up, shoes and handbags, nothing I'll need or even miss.
I straighten my bedsheets and pick yesterday's jeans up off the floor, folding them neatly and placing them on my pillow. I frown as something rustles in the left-hand pocket – I never put things in my pockets – and delve my hand inside to feel the crackle of paper.
I pull out a folded sheet of A4 paper, torn down the left hand-side. Curiously, I unfold it, and my face crumples almost as much as the sheet itself when I realise what it is.
In bold black ink, copperplate writing stands out in the centre of the page. Three intricately written letters;
EVE
I tuck the page carefully into my new jeans and grab my shoulder bag, packed with my books and pens, which I will dump the moment we get over the fence.
Only the piece of paper will I hold onto – my only keepsake of Malachy.
I visit the canteen on schedule at seven o clock sharp, drinking my fill of breakfast, stocking up for what lies ahead. I have no idea how I will fare hunting for real rather than being handed my food in a beaker, but I feel confident that I've gained enough knowledge to at least perform the basics.
The idea of trudging along to Languages class is little short of hysterical to me, but I must act normal and be seen within the Institute before we escape. It will buy us more time; students will remember that I turned up for first period and assume – at least for a while – that I'm simply late for second. Even if I'm caught skipping class, I'll be seen with Lorna and everyone will turn a blind eye to it. The more I think about it, the more confident I feel that we can actually pull this off.
Languages class passes in a blur and I glance around at faces I will never see again. Mouthy Tomos O'Brien, his Irish accent as distinctive as his freckled face. Cheryl Berry, the quiet, softly spoken student with Meredith for a Mentor. Logan Marshall, the arrogant yet devilishly handsome boy whose demonstration in that fateful Practical lesson was as disturbing as it was disappointing.
None of these people mean anything to me, yet I still somehow feel like I'll miss them.
The general day to day hustle and bustle of the Institute, the gossip and laughter, the Black Room, the common room, even my One-To-One lessons with Miss Morelli – all of this and more I will miss like crazy.
When our hour is up and it's time to leave, I struggle to get out of my seat. It's only now, at the very last second, that I'm realising how desperate I am to stay. The Institute's rules are ridiculous and binding, the Auctoritas' laws even more unjust, this entire world is corrupt and prejudiced – but I would rather be in it.
Lorna is waiting, as promised, in the entrance hall, her coat packed out with wads of Euros. She wears a thick black scarf and loose fitting jeans – practical and warm. And when I see her face – full of hope and grim determination – I know that I can't let her down.
The hall itself is empty – there are no classrooms down here – and the cold air blows in from beneath the heavy oak doors.
'Ready?' I ask, keeping my voice low. She nods and I pull on the iron door handle, allowing her to step through before following her into the brisk morning chill. I close the door behind me and we set off on a well-paced, casual-looking walk.
'Why don't they have cameras at the borders?' I ask suddenly. 'This is the 2000's.'
Lorna glances sideways at me, her expression unreadable. 'There aren't any cameras at the border, are there?' I ask, my tone menacing. Lorna shakes her head quickly.
'Of course not. The Auctoritas don't use modern technology like cameras and recording equipment. That sort of stuff gets lost easily and it wouldn't take a lot for a human to get their hands on it. If an Immortal knowingly appears in a photograph or a piece of footage, they'll be thrown into the Confine.'
'Good thing they tell you all this beforehand, isn't it?' I ask sarcastically.
'Well, had you stayed your full five years, they would have.' Lorna quips.
I subtly glance back to the Institute, looking for a face at a window, or even a figure running across the grounds, but there are none. In just a few short minutes, we've walked far enough away that the building is beginning to shrink into the distance.
As we near the stream, we pick up our pace a little. It isn't a conscious decision, more an effect of the excitement at the notion that we're winning. Lorna glances at me and lets the smallest glimmer of a triumphant smile play on her lips. I grin back at her. Even though we've still got a long way to go, the fact that we haven't been apprehended yet is a miracle in itself. But as I grin at Lorna, expecting her to grin back, the tiny smile she's sporting suddenly drops. She freezes, the bag containing the bank notes bangs violently against her hip, and she stares rigidly over my shoulder, her expression one of terror. I turn to see what's stopped her in her tracks, and when I do, my grin fades quicker than a snuffed out candle, my stomach drops to my feet.
From behind the morose willow tree, a figure emerges, silhouetted against the white, winter sky. If I were still human, I might not be able to squint through the stark sunlight, I might not notice the sheet of white blonde hair, the flash of blue eyes – and the shimmer of green within them.
Lucrezia seems to glide towards us, her feet barely touching the ground. She has a look of amusement on her pretty features but, as she glares at me, I see the anger blazing within her eyes. I see the green fire spitting and raging.
'Out for a little stroll, girls?' She raises an eyebrow, stopping a few feet shy of us. Lorna's gulp of terror is audible to both Lucrezia and myself, and I pray that she has the sense to keep herself together.
'Yes,' I reply curtly. 'Is there a problem?' There's no point in trying to keep things civil; that would only increase Lucrezia's suspicion.
'Skipping lessons again, Ryder,' She tuts. 'Except, it seems that this time you don't feel the need to hand yourself in.'
'I'm with Lorna,' I gesture to my human companion, who is now wild-eyed and trembling. 'I'm allowed to skip lessons when I'm with Lorna.'
'As if I need reminding,' Lucrezia smirks. She eyes the bag swinging from Lorna's shoulder, notes her erratic breathing and thumping heartbeat, and then turns her attention back to me.
'You know,' she muses thoughtfully. 'I did think it rather odd, that little charade with Malachy about turning yourself in. The random admission of guilt, and your strange request that my brother be the one to apprehend you,'
I feel a shiver of fear creep down my spine. My mind keeps screaming the same two words: She knows!
'Your spat with Tia Carey was most peculiar too,' she adds, still using that thoughtful, dreamy voice. 'As was Meredith Draper's little meltdown about something she saw. Something to do with Malachy...' She eyes me coldly. 'Malachy says that your friendship is nothing but a girlish fixation on your part,'
I breathe a sigh of relief. She doesn't know. She's just here to remind me that Malachy feels nothing for me, that I'm nothing to him, that he says so himself.
'But I'm not stupid,' she adds. 'Everyone knows you're the spitting image of that Russian tramp. Malachy's fixation with you was obvious from the get go. And of course, eventually he fell for you for real.'
I glance at Lorna, feeling my knees weaken beneath me. Evidently, Lucrezia is not as stupid as I thought she was.
'Which makes me wonder,' she continues. 'If he's in love again, which clearly he is, why
isn't he acting like he did the first time? Why isn't he walking around in a sickening daze and acting all perky like he did the first time?
It's almost like – ' she pauses, eyeing me sharply. 'It's almost like when that girl got carted off to the Confine. He's moping and brooding, refusing to talk to anyone, acting all wounded and hurt.
Why?' She barks suddenly. 'When you're still here?'
'Lucrezia, I think you've – ' I try to cut her off before she's able to make her point. It might not be what I think it is, she may not know, but if she does, I don't want to risk her actually saying it. If she says it, then that makes it real.
'And then I thought,' she continues, as if I hadn't spoken. 'Maybe it's because you're only here for the moment.' Her eyes sparkle and in that instant, I realise that she knows. And I realise how stupid I've been to assume her naivety.
Lucrezia never bought Malachy's lies, his stories about Sir Alec asking him to keep an eye on me. She knew all along that we were sneaking around together. But if she knew, why didn't she put a stop to it like she did with Aleks? Why did she play along and pretend to believe us?
The Gray Institute (The Gray Institute Trilogy Book 1) Page 41
