She didn’t look up to meet his gaze, and he wanted to grab her chin and force her to, but he waited.
“You’re not breathing,” she said after a moment.
At the sound of her voice filling up the space between them, he forced himself to draw in air. “I can’t,” he said. “Not around you.”
Taking a deep breath, she finally looked up at him, eyes as blue as they ever were. “I believe you. But I need to understand it.”
“Ask me anything,” he said, willing her not to look away.
But she did, back down at her hands. “Not ask,” she said. “I need to see.”
He didn’t know what that meant, but he didn’t care. “Do it.”
She nodded once and then took his hands.
14
Old Memories & New Nightmares
The moment our fingers touched, my mouth parted and I let out a noise of shock. The connection was instantaneous, drawing me in too deep too fast. Suddenly I wasn’t Par anymore—I was Jesse. Touching someone accidentally could sharpen the psychic connection, allowing me to hear their thoughts more clearly, even when I didn’t want to. But touching someone when the link was deliberately open, especially skin to skin, was like becoming that person. Their memories, their feelings—which were in startling detail instead of empty echoes—were my own. Their emotions belonged to me. It was powerful and overwhelming. It was terrifying.
Which was why this was only the second time I’d ever done it. Memories of the first time threatened to rise up but were blessedly snowed under beneath the onslaught of scenes. All I could do was watch.
Images swim before me, crystal clear and animated. I see a young boy with dark hair and sparkling green eyes that I know is Felix, and a younger child, a girl, with similar features and dimples in her smile. It is Nina. They are waiting for their mother’s ginger hardtack candy to set. In a toddler’s voice, Nina asks to be the one to break it this time.
Realizing I’d gone too far into the past, I pulled back with effort. As seductive as the idea of reliving each and every one of Jesse’s memories was, I knew that wasn’t my purpose. I wanted to know who he was, what he’d done, and why he’d done it. I refocused, and what I witnessed would haunt me until the day I died.
A moonlit window. A dark room. A door bursting open and a shadowed figure silhouetted. Then the screams. I watch helplessly as he slaughters my mother and father and my sweet, innocent baby sister, who had just turned fourteen the day before, with his bare hands and teeth. The blood is everywhere. It is bright and glossy and it stands out in stark contrast in the memory. Neon red. I stare at it, confused, the rifle I hadn’t even had a chance to draw up hanging limply in my hand. Felix stands beside me in terrified silence.
In truth, I knew that it’d been so dark in the cabin that the blood had looked black against their white nightgowns, dripping like oil down dangling, lifeless hands. But memories were like that sometimes. Especially the traumatic ones. They became whatever the person wanted them to be, the emotions surrounding the memory distorting the details over time.
This did not, however, make them any less real. And just as Jesse had stood, in shock, with tears streaming down his face as a monster had gorged on the blood of his family, I too felt them streaming down my own face in present day. Horror and heartache tore through me, but I watched on, unwilling to stop until I knew the whole story.
Patrick. This is who I know him to be. I see his face, pale in the moonlight and slick with blood, before my own. His brilliant green eyes are wide and alive with excitement. All I can think is that I’ve never seen a man with such fine red hair. And it clings in tight, childlike curls around his face. How had this boy, this abomination, who looked no more than seventeen, killed with such savagery in the span of only a breath? It wasn’t poss—
Patrick strikes in a blur of movement. A hot sear of pain at my throat as his teeth tear through skin and sink deep. The silky softness of his curls against the side of my face. He smells of peppermint. And blood. My family’s blood. I struggle with raw terror against the boy who is shorter than me by at least a foot, my fingers clawing at his gentleman’s brocade waistcoat. I don’t struggle for long. And after, when I find myself lying on the cold planks of the floor, I hear my brother do the same.
Back in Jesse’s living room, I heard my name being called, as if from the far end of a long, echoing tunnel, but I tightened my grip on his hands and stood my ground. I wanted to know. I had to know. I had too many questions. There was no way I was stopping now. I jumped back into his memories, landing in a scene that took place a few days after the night of the murders.
Images of Patrick. His smiling face as he presents me and Felix with a frightened young girl that I recognize to be my neighbor’s twelve-year-old daughter. Her impossibly wide, terrified eyes as my brother falls upon her like a ravenous beast. And later, her screams, as I do the same. I feel the burning hunger of a man starved, and I taste the sweet, dark syrup of her blood in my mouth. I hear the distant, proud laugh of a doting father as I swallow for the first time. And it is good. And right. And there is no regret. No remembering. No pain.
As the years passed, there were more girls. Boys too. Eventually, Jesse found them on his own, without Patrick’s help. And Felix did too. But then came the special ones. The ones with gifts. The ones who, like me, could move things with their minds. Or could turn water into ice. Or become invisible. Or any number of bizarre, unbelievable things. Those they brought home to Patrick. And over time, their faces and abilities and, later, their species became nothing but a blur, and pretty soon they all looked the same.
Then came flashes of things that didn’t make sense. Once again, I was Jesse. Seeing through his eyes. Feeling what he felt. Doing what he did.
I hold my hand out in front of me, splaying my fingers, and walk through a wall as if it is made of air. I feel the displacement of its particles as I pass through.
And another time.
I bypass the locking mechanism of a safe and reach through solid steel to retrieve stacks of money and jewelry.
And then there was another safe. And another.
I see Felix. And women. Blondes. Brunettes. A hundred faces. More. They are always the same. Only now, with him, their laughter doesn’t turn into screams. There is something different about my brother. This leads to fighting and, eventually, estrangement. I see Felix’s angry face. Hear his furious demands for me to see Patrick as he does. To stop the madness and the killing and the blind obedience. I don’t listen. I have no desire to stop. I will never stop.
I see animals. Every different kind. Bears. Wolves. Foxes. Even great, soaring eagles. I know these to be Felix. As the years wear on, I rarely see my brother in his human form. And when I see him in his animal, it is always from afar. He watches. Waits. Hopes. I always know it is him, and I meet his eyes for the briefest of moments and then turn and walk away. There is no regret. Only a hollow emptiness.
I see a cave opening deep in the woods and a mountain rising above it, its peak somewhere high above the tree line. I pass by guards and step inside as I have done so many times. And will do again so many more.
Inside, the scenery evolved before my very eyes, a thousand memories of the same walk down the same tunnel merging into one.
Flickering torches line the tunnel walls and eventually become modern gas lighting the farther I walk. The bare stone floor beneath my boots becomes a length of fine Persian carpet. The sloped walls become decorated with paintings and tapestries. And when I reach the end, where the tunnel leads into the heart of the cavern, the damp, stale air becomes artificially cool and dry.
Years pass in this place. Patrick’s home. His den of iniquity. He is always here. Walking alongside me through the vast network of tunnels and echoing rooms. Handing me folders with pictures of people I don’t know and places I’ve never been. I hear his laughter. His voice. Feel the weight of his gaze. And along with it, I feel pieces of myself begin to break off and drift away. Over time
, I forget that I should be bothered by this.
I see others like me in the mountain with cold, dead eyes like mine. I know they aren’t just afraid of Patrick. They are afraid of me too. I see women. So many women. Some willing. Some not. Either way, there is always sex. Always blood. And some women I even see beneath my own body. I see their eyes closed in pleasure and their mouths open as I move in and out of them. I hear their breathless gasps. Smell our mingled sweat. Feel their nails digging into the skin of my back. I watch as their faces change rapidly as decades go by. They are never the same. Always different. An ever-changing succession of hair and eye and skin colors.
I know nothing about them except that I hate them. I hate what I’ve allowed myself to become. Hate is vibrant. It burns. It makes my teeth ache and my head pound. And I cling to it because I can feel it. And somehow this is better than feeling nothing at all.
Nausea welled in my throat as I pulled out of the disturbing memories. I felt sick and sad and horrified at all I thought I’d known about Jesse and how wrong I’d been. But I couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until I found what I was looking for.
So I pressed on. Sorting through the memories and the years. The teeth and skin and taste of blood, hot and sweet. The hours of nothingness and solitude.
It seemed to go on forever until I thought it would never end.
And then, finally, there I was.
A picture in a manila folder. A copy of a driver’s license, paperclipped to a single leaf of paper. A name printed across the top in all caps: PARSLEY ELLEN WALKER A.K.A. SARAH WALKER. There isn’t much to tell. A brief medical history and background, current location, and analysis of psychic abilities. I give the information a cursory glance and then flip the folder closed.
And then I saw myself through the high-powered lens of a camera, my face momentarily frozen each time the shutter released. At the gas station, watching the pump with a frown. Through the glass windows at Monk’s, taking an order. Unlocking the door to my apartment with a single bag of groceries hanging from the crook of my arm. I looked like me, but different. My hair was a deeper shade of auburn than I’d realized. My eyes bluer. My clothes shabbier.
This was how he saw me.
I watched through Jesse’s eyes as he sat in his car across from my apartment, moonlight gleaming down on the hood. He stared down at the digital camera in his hands, going through the pictures he’d taken, one by one. He zoomed in on one of my face when I was looking over my shoulder, the breeze casting a few strands of hair across my forehead. The photo quality was sharp and clear, and I could see flecks of gold in my eyes that I hadn’t even known were there. I could count the individual freckles on my nose. See the sheen of sweat on my forehead from the walk home on a warm day. I felt him frown and watched as he absently rubbed his thumb across the screen, studying every detail.
And then, we met.
I saw myself standing over him for the first time, my cheeks pink as I stared at my order pad, refusing to meet his eyes. I could even hear the clinking of silverware and smell pancakes and sausage frying. And for the first time, there was a blip in Jesse’s flatlined emotions.
“What can I get you?”
My chest tightens at the sound of her voice. This is the first time I’ve heard it. It is soft and sweet. I ask to hear the breakfast specials just so I can hear it again. An unfamiliar sensation tightens my chest. Regret. I frown.
Similar times played through his mind, the days zipping by until they were nothing but a blur. Each time, I felt the block of ice in his chest thaw a little more. With each quiet laugh of mine, each hesitant smile, he remembered he was alive. And that it hurt like hell. He began to crave me like the worst kind of addiction.
It was both torture and deliverance.
As the months that followed played out in Jesse’s memories, I experienced so many different emotions it was hard to keep track of them all. It was like waking up from a coma you hadn’t even known you were in and feeling everything for the first time. When he was alone, the emotions would recede. The emptiness, the monotonous need to obey Patrick, the desire to finish the job he’d started, would return. But when he was with me, life came roaring back in Technicolor. And all he knew was that he wanted it in all its beautiful suffering.
In the real world, Jesse was shouting again, a distant booming in my ear. But I wasn’t finished yet. There were still things I had to see.
I zeroed in on the night of the festival.
I am in an alley, and my brother is talking on the cell phone I have to my ear. I haven’t heard his voice in so long, and it’s good to hear it. I’m relieved to have his help. And his forgiveness. With no questions asked.
My plan is simple. I will walk with her tonight. Let her enjoy the sights and sounds. I want to see her smile and buy her a candied apple. Watch her throw darts at balloons. Win prizes. Hear her laugh. I want her to have this memory. This one last carefree moment before I tell her. Before I try to convince her to come away with me. Forever. Before I turn her life into a nightmare.
And then I’m walking. Leaving the alley and stepping into the bright, flashing lights and laughter and festival sounds.
“I’m surprised to see you here all alone.”
When I turn to see Kristen and her revealing outfit and overdone makeup, I feel no attraction. She is cheap, and she is in my way. She grabs my arm and, in a flash of movement, I slam her against the concession. I feel the fragility of her neck beneath my hand and the urgent throbbing of her vein. Her lips pressing against mine, desperate and smelling like cherry lip gloss.
And just like that, Patrick was in control. Jesse had no knowledge of this. There was no noticeable shift. No awareness of change. But I knew. I could feel him in his head. Pushing. Encouraging. A whisper of deceit. A breath of satisfaction. It thrived on the obedience. Fed off the abandonment of free will until it was pulling his strings like a puppeteer.
I break away from the kiss and, from one breath to the next, I raise my lips into a soundless snarl and bite. I taste the salt of her and feel the sharp tips of my canines pierce her skin. Her blood—hot, sweet, and syrupy—fills my mouth. It is fast and good, and her gasp of momentary pain quickly bleeds into a moan of pleasure. There is no thought. There is only hunger. Only instinct. I forget who I am. I forget who she is. I forget everything but the taste of blood and the sensation of its slick, hot slide down my throat.
And then a voice cuts through the fog.
“Jesse.”
I turn, drawn to that voice. Remembering it. Her face is pale and stricken and familiar. Her eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. And they are blue. My chest suddenly aches. She turns and runs. I want to follow her.
In the real world, the shouting grew louder. More frantic. Distantly, I felt a jolt, and I knew Jesse was trying to pull away. Attempting to bring me out of the trance I was in. I realized he must be seeing the heartbreak I was feeling. As well as the tears I knew I was crying. I would be sweating. And probably trembling from the strain. My face would be pale and drawn. He would be worried. But I tightened my grip on his hands.
Almost, I wanted to tell him. Almost.
Through Jesse’s emotionless eyes, I watched the events unfold in front of my apartment with a vacant emptiness. I watched him see but not feel. And my heart broke.
She’s pleading. Resisting me. There is confusion and horror in her eyes. I pull, and she falls, crying out. I turn and see the dirt and blood on her knee. And there is a spark of something then. Some flicker of emotion. But then it’s gone.
“Jesse, please. I don’t want to hurt you.”
I reach down once more, unafraid. How can she hurt me? She is only a human who can read minds. What she wants doesn’t matter. She will come with me. There is no other option.
But then there is only light. An explosion of brightness behind my eyelids. Pain, stringing me tight like a bowstring. There is the brief weightlessness of being airborne, and I can do nothing but listen to the flap of my jacket a
nd the whistle of wind in my ears. Until I make impact. The jarring, bone-cracking collision with the pavement is deafening. And then, there is noth—
I was pulled out of the memory and Jesse’s mind abruptly, the real world rushing back in with a bombardment of sights and sounds. Light from overhead blinded me, and I winced, swaying under a wave of dizziness. Jesse’s voice was thunder in my ears. I blinked and swallowed the rising nausea that made speech momentarily impossible.
“Get some tissues,” I heard him growl.
I groaned as he picked me up, my head lolling back onto his bicep.
“Par?” Jesse asked as he carried me to the couch and lowered me down. “Answer me. Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
I tried opening my eyes again and, after a moment, he came into focus, his shadowed, green gaze bearing down on me.
“Jesse,” I said and then coughed. My throat was dry and sore. I must have been screaming.
He closed his eyes and let out a breath, visibly relieved, and crouched. He grabbed the orange juice still sitting on table behind him and brought it to my lips. With a weak arm, I pushed it aside, ignoring his frown. I didn’t want to drink. I wanted to ask him a question.
“Parsley,” he said, setting the glass back on the table so he could stop me from sitting up. “Relax. Please.”
It was then I noticed the already purple bruises on his hands. My eyes widened in dismay. “Did I—”
“Stop,” he said, glancing up as Felix appeared with a box of tissues. Jesse took the box and pulled one out, holding it to my nose. He met my eyes. “Don’t worry about that.”
Tears burned, not only for what I’d done to his hands, but also for what I’d seen. With trembling fingers, I took the tissue from him, holding it in place myself. When he looked like he wanted to protest, I whispered, “Please.”
He nodded and dropped his hand, jaw clenching.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I attempted to absorb emotions and memories that didn’t belong to me but were now mine all the same.
First Fruits Page 13
