by Anna Rezes
Before I can pull myself away, a blissful calm envelops me. I become limp in his arms, feeding off his soothing aura. Patrick’s way of calming me is comforting and reminds me of how my mom used to console me. After a few minutes, we roll to our backs, staring at the ceiling with only our shoulders touching.
“Patrick,” I whisper after a while of silence. “What was your mom like?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you remember most about her?” When he doesn’t answer, I continue, “My mom smelled like vanilla. It was her perfume, but I didn’t know that when I was little. I thought it was just her scent.”
Patrick’s silence keeps me talking, spilling my guts. “When I was sick and had to stay home from school, she’d make me chicken noodle soup, and we’d watch murder mystery shows. I didn’t know how much I cherished those times until they were gone. It feels impossible to recognize a perfect memory in the making until it’s too late and the moment is gone.”
I have a lot more to say, but I rein it in. I think of all the simple things my mom did for me in the mundane everyday moments. They’re monumental in the way I remember her. Even if she was a killer, she was my mother first. I was nine when she left. I had no idea my nurturing, loving mother was out killing any sign of a threat to our family. Maybe others are justified in fearing Valla blood, or perhaps they should fear anyone they back into a corner and force to defend their young.
“My mom smelled like lavender.” Patrick’s voice is soft as he interrupts my memories. “I think of her whenever I catch a hint of the scent. And I loved her hair.” He squirms next to me. “That’s weird isn’t it?”
“No,” I answer. “My mom used to French braid my hair like hers all the time. I loved it. After she left, I tried to braid it myself, but I never got the hang of it.”
Silence flows over our admissions, and although the topic is heavy, the memories are beautiful. I hold onto them firmly, like the prized possessions they are.
“She sang to me,” Patrick whispers. “She was beautiful. There wasn’t anything about her that wasn’t lovely, and her voice was no exception.” Unshed tears glisten in his eyes.
“My mom would build snowmen with me when my sister decided she was too cool to play in the snow,” I say, revealing more of myself so he won’t feel so vulnerable.
Patrick continues, “I had trouble making friends because we moved around so much. I remember wondering why anyone would want to settle in one place for their whole life. I wasn’t into the things normal boys were into, and girls would follow me around like puppies. My mom was the only person I was close to and in a way, she was my best friend. That sounds so lame.”
“It sounds lonely.”
“I’m used to lonely.”
“That’s sad.”
“Says the girl who pushes everyone away.”
“Aren’t we a joyful pair?” I sigh.
“What if this is one of those moments?” Patrick offers, “A perfect memory in the making. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring so we should cherish the time we have.”
I push up onto an elbow. “Patrick, why are you doing this?”
The light drains from his face and his long lashes frame beautiful telling eyes, giving me a glimpse inside his mind where love and pain are one and the same. He gently cups my cheek, sending a shiver through me as he says, “You’re asking what you already know and hearing my answer will only make it more difficult for you to deny what’s between us.”
Averting my eyes, I whisper, “Patrick, you know how I feel about Ben.”
“I’m well aware of your feelings,” he says, covering his emotions behind an easy smile. “Even those feelings you pretend aren’t there. Now, come on. Get up so we can practice.”
“Again? I feel like that’s all we do.”
“Yes, and we’ll continue until you are the most powerful Olvasho alive.”
“I thought I already was.”
“Yes, but it’s all for nothing if you don’t know how to wield your power.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting up.”
Day eleven underground, I’m looking for a steak knife.
“Patrick, where are all the knives?”
From his spot on the couch, he turns to look at me standing in the kitchen. “Did you look in the dishwasher?”
“There are only three in there and they’re dirty. What happened to the rest of them?”
He shrugs and turns back to the television. “Just wash one from the dishwasher.”
I glare at the back of his head. “But what happened to the rest of them? There are six slots for knives. What happened to the other three?”
“I don’t know, Nancy Drew,” he says to the TV. “Let me know if you find any clues.”
I retrieve a dirty knife from the dishwasher and begin washing it under the faucet. “Are you hoarding knives? It’s just the two of us, where else could they go?”
“You forgot to include Maggie.”
What would Patrick be doing with knives? My inner Ms. Drew is indeed very curious, so I drop the knife on the counter and head to Patrick’s room. His door is closed, but I enter anyway.
“Hey,” I hear Patrick complain, chasing after me.
I haven’t been in his room since our first day. Unlike mine, his room is incredibly neat, like folded corners and bounce a quarter off the bed neat. Nothing is on the dresser but a lamp and a clock. The room is spotless. I throw open his closet doors sure to find his mess stashed inside.
“Holy Crap!” I exclaim, finding perfect order in the closet with shirts on one side, pants on the other, and he’s color-coded his entire wardrobe with shoes sitting below. “It looks like a closet in a showroom for closets.”
“What are you doing in my room?”
I wave my hand toward the closet. “OCD much?”
“I like organization.”
“I’ll say! For someone who likes order so much, it must be killing you not to know where the knives are.”
“Nope,” he smirks, before walking to his dresser. “I know where the knives are.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“One is in your room among the dirty dishes from your dinner last night.”
“And the other two?”
“Are here,” he says, opening the top drawer of his dresser.
“So, you are hoarding knives!”
“I’ve been using them to practice.”
“Practice what? Knife throwing?”
“You are aware that Olvasho have healing abilities, and in remarkably rare cases there are some who can heal themselves.” He pulls out a knife. “I was practicing.”
“Practicing! Patrick, what do you mean you were practicing? How exactly have you been practicing?”
He pulls his long sleeve shirt up over his head and drops it on the dresser.
I wince when I see the varying degrees of healing to the cuts on his left arm. “Patrick, instead of maiming yourself, don’t you think it’d be better to start with, I don’t know, a paper cut or something small?”
“I concluded something as insignificant as a paper cut wouldn’t be enough incentive for the self-healing to surface.”
“So, you thought self-mutilation was the way to go?”
“My progress has been disappointing thus far, but I wanted to see if I could do it before I suggested you try.”
“It was a struggle for me to heal Ben’s hand, so you can try all you want, but I’m not about to cut holes in my body in the off chance I’ll be able to heal myself.”
“Even though your gifts far outweigh mine, I would advise against you harming yourself to test my theory.”
“You should take your own advice. Do you want me to try to heal you?”
Patrick holds his arm out to me, palm up. “Yes, however, I expect you to do more than just try. Allow me to provide some incentive.”
I gasp as he slides the blade deep across his upper arm, far deeper than the other varying wounds. His eyebrow is rai
sed in challenge as he holds his open wound out to me. Bright crimson flows like a fountain down his arm, dripping through his fingers onto the white carpet.
“Patrick! What the hell!” I move forward grabbing his discarded shirt to hold it against the gaping wound.
“As you can see, I’ve been pretty unsuccessful, so you would be smart to heal this promptly unless you really do want to see me dead.” His face pales as he staggers to the corner of the bed, emphasizing the magnitude of what he’s just done.
“Patrick, you know I don’t know how to heal something like this!”
“I trust you’ll figure it out.”
I help lower him to the bed before he collapses on the floor. Blood is pooling on the white covers, the shirt completely useless. I yank the blanket over and press it against the wound to suppress the blood flow. Remaining calm is impossible when there is so much blood, but I know my next move is critical.
“I need to call 911.”
“The blood you see is coming from my brachial artery. Paramedics aren’t going to get here in time. It’s up to you, love.” His eyes lose focus before he slips into unconsciousness.
I can’t breathe! I can’t think! I can’t believe he did this! Closing my eyes, I center myself before fear and panic consume me. A deep breath through my nose fills my head with the metallic smell of blood. My thoughts spin out of control. Something nudges my arm, and I open my eyes to find Maggie sitting at my side.
“Maggie, I don’t know what to do.”
She whimpers, nudging me toward Patrick. His lips are turning blue against his now ghostly skin. He looks like a corpse and that image is what clears my head. Determined to keep him alive, I push aside my fear and panic, unwrap his bloody arm, and lay my hands directly over the wound. Sticky warmth fills my palms as I zero in on its source. He said it was his artery, so I visualize mending the most critical laceration.
My hands feel like I submerged them in boiling water as the warmth of his blood turns to lava against my touch. I suppress a scream, pushing through the pain. His unconscious state works in my favor because I don’t have to filter through his thoughts as I’m racing to heal his body.
The bleeding slows considerably, and I know I’ve successfully mended his brachial artery; however, the incision in his flesh is still gaping. Fatigue slows my progress. Intense pain engulfs me. Minutes pass like hours. When the gash is sealed and the process complete, we’re still not out of the woods. His heartbeat has dwindled to a thready pulse, and his chest barely rises with each shallow breath. Even after successfully healing his injury, there is no way for me to replace his depleted blood supply.
“You can’t die, Patrick!”
I jump off the bed and run to the kitchen to get the emergency phone. Before I dial Chris’s number, I wipe the blood from my shaking fingers.
“At your service,” Chris grumbles, his tone incongruent with his words.
“I need blood! Can you get me blood?”
“What the hell do you mean, you need blood?”
“Patrick lost a lot of blood. I got the bleeding to stop, but he’s lost too much! Chris, I don’t know what blood type he is, but this is time sensitive! The sooner, the better!”
“I’m on my way,” he says, before hanging up.
I go back to Patrick. The scene before me looks like something out of a horror film, but I take comfort in the way Patrick’s chest rises and falls. Maggie lies in the darkening pool of blood on the bed next to him with her head nuzzled into his side. I sit on the other side and rest my head on his chest. I listen for each thump of his heartbeat, treasuring the sound it makes.
I wrap my arms around his cool torso and create a healing warmth with my mind. His body responds well to the heat, so I relax, knowing reinforcements are on the way. Relief is why I close my eyes, but exhaustion is how I fall asleep.
“Emily!” I wake to Chris’s eyes wild with worry. “Are you hurt?” he says, doing a visual once over.
I shake my head, sitting up on the bed next to Patrick. “Did you bring the blood?”
“Yes, everything is in the hall. What happened here?” Chris moves to Patrick. Maggie growls a warning, but Chris ignores her. His hands frantically run along Patrick’s body searching for a wound that could produce such a gory scene.
“I told you I stopped the bleeding,” I say, as he continues to look for the injury I’ve already closed. “You’re wasting time, Chris!”
Finally realizing there is no open wound, he turns to me with accusing eyes. “Where did all this blood come from?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Your dad’s preparations will come in handy,” he says, moving into the hall. “We keep blood stored for you and lucky for Patrick, you’re the same blood type.”
“How do you know?” I say, following him out of the room.
“Because I do my research.” He gives me a serious look, loading up my arms with equipment. “Now maybe you can tell me how you closed an arterial bleed?”
“What makes you think it was an arterial bleed?” I ask as we head back into Patrick’s room.
“The amount of blood,” he says, motioning to Patrick. “I need you to clean his arm so I can start an IV.”
Dumping the supplies onto the dresser, I run to the bathroom for water and towels before rushing back to Patrick. Maggie whimpers when I move her away. Scrubbing the drying blood from his skin isn’t as easy as I anticipated, but he’s looking less like a murder victim. I’m laying clean towels under Patrick when Chris instructs me to get out of the way so he can start an IV.
After an entire bag of blood has dripped into Patrick, he’s still looking pale. Chris says he’s doing remarkably well considering the amount of blood loss. After Chris is done checking Patrick’s blood pressure for the fourth time, I can no longer hold my tongue.
“How did you know how to do all of this?”
“I used to be a paramedic, but it turns out security pays better. It doesn’t mean I forgot my medical training. So, do you care to explain to me what happened here?”
“Not knowing all the details may help keep you alive, Chris. My dad had his reasons for keeping certain things from you. He clearly trusts you, and you should give him the same courtesy.”
“Okay, I’ll let it go for now.”
Nearly six hours and four units of blood later, Chris unhooks the last bag and pulls the IV from Patrick’s arm. The improvement in his color is reassuring. Chris says his vitals have improved, which is excellent news since we’ve depleted my dad’s emergency stash. Patrick hasn’t woken, and I can’t reach his thoughts when he’s unconscious, but his heartbeat is strong, and his breathing is steady.
Staring at him these last few hours has given me time to think. Over the last week and a half, Patrick has become irreplaceable. Regardless of his motivations, he’s taught me the things he felt were important. He’s devoted himself to protecting me, helping me cope with the drastic changes in my life. Sure, he can be insensitive and arrogant, but he’s proven to have a depth I’ve only begun to understand. Patrick said he doesn’t form bonds of any kind, but the friendship we have built in this underground prison would be a hard one to break.
“You’ve helped me bear a weight that alone would have crushed me,” I whisper, stroking my hand through his hair.
Patrick’s eyes remain closed, but the smirk that stretches across his face has never looked so good. His lips open to speak, “To awaken the devilishly handsome prince, the princess must give truelove’s kiss. Assuming, of course, you still want me alive, love.”
Relief floods through me, choking me up. I blink away the tears. “I was so scared you wouldn’t wake up.”
Patrick opens his eyes, saying, “You thought I would die that easily?”
I continue to slide my hand through his hair, holding back the need to throw my arms around him.
“I knew you had it in you,” he says.
“How could you do that to me? What were you thinking?”
“I thought I would
wake to a kiss, like a proper greeting when someone beats death.”
I slap his chest. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!”
He smiles against my assault. “I make no promises.”
twenty-nine
Fourteen days is what it takes for me to reach my limit. I haven’t heard from Dad in two long weeks. The hope of finding him alive is all but gone. Each day brings agony from waiting to hear bad news. I need to get fresh air. Today! It’s a matter of my sanity.
When Patrick mentions he’s going out to drop research papers off to a coworker, I tell him I’m going along. He laughs at my insistence which turns me into a raving madwoman, ranting in run-on sentences until he changes his mind. I want to think I’m just that persuasive in my reasoning, but I know he just wants to shut me up.
“Hold on, I have to grab my contacts to disguise my eyes,” I say before we leave.
He laughs at me. “Contacts won’t help. They’ll know you when they see you, and they’ll feel your presence before that.”
“Fine.” I march past him and start up the stairs. “Let’s go.”
“Just so we’re clear, you’re staying in the car,” he says from behind me.
“Fine!”
We leave Maggie in the underground lair while Patrick and I go on our errand. The sun feels like heaven, and I inhale the fresh air hoping it will last me a while. I look through the car windows watching the buildings pass by. I didn’t realize how much I treasured normal everyday freedoms until they were taken away.
“Patrick, what exactly do you do for your internship?”
“I assist in head hunting. I do background checks on people to see if they’re the right fit, but mostly I get stuck with the research that no one else can find.” He taps the side of his head. “I have a secret weapon to get the information I need.”
We pull up to a luxury hotel wedged between apartment buildings and Patrick parks his BMW.
“I’m just going to drop this off. Lay low. I’ll be back in two minutes.” He opens his door, taking his briefcase with him.
I doubt anyone would be able to see me through the deep tint in the windows, but I keep my head down honoring our agreement. After a few minutes pass and Patrick doesn’t return, I begin to worry. I reach out with my mind and feel him on the second floor. Something feels wrong. Fear and foreboding loom in Patrick’s mind so heavily it chokes my rationale. My need to protect him overrides my logic, so I jet out of the car without a second thought. Hurrying into the lobby, I track him. I feel him coming down the stairs and meet him just outside the stairwell door.
