by S. E. Chase
“No, of course not. It was supposed to be a routine ‘retrieve museum collections’ trip.” Well, routine for her. Driving across New York with skeletons was not normal for most people.
His mouth twisted in a sly smile. “Your weird radar kicked in again.”
She laughed and elbowed him.
He folded his long hands together and leaned closer. “What’s their background?”
“Minimal. I’m going to the museum that discarded them. See what I can uncover.” She paused. His eyes flashed, a spark of interest in the idea of murdered museum skeletons—he was conversing, displaying more awareness than he’d shown in months. His face reflected the curiosity she loved so much about him, before . . . everything happened. Figured old bones would have that effect.
Michael watched.
“Out and back trip,” she said. “Less than a day.”
He rested his chin on his hands and stared at the ground. Closed his eyes.
She leaned in, arm extended on the chair. Nudged his shoulder. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I can't.”
“It’s been long enough. Please Michael. The skeletons interest you, I can tell. If you want to know more—”
“I do . . . but . . . I don’t trust me. You know that.”
“But I trust you.”
“K, it's no good. You don't understand.”
She sighed at the familiar conversation. She didn’t know how to smash his self-contained resignation, yearned for his goofy sardonic humor. “I'll keep you on a short leash.” She smiled. “I’d like the company. No one will know you. I won’t expect you to talk. Come out for a while. Take a walk in the world.”
The world?
I wish.
Sounded simple. But—whose world? Michael wanted to go. For her. Of course she’d picked up his interest in the wandering bones—the same weird sense of curiosity had brought them together, connected them. Hell, she knew him better than anyone except maybe Einar. Or had. Until.
He tilted his head. A small man, he was thin, hadn’t been eating much since he’d resurfaced and been shot. His dark hair was longish, in need of a haircut. It framed an unshaven face with long scar running down its side. He always wore a long sleeve shirt to cover his mangled arms, seldom glanced in a mirror. Didn’t want to stare back at the lost soul, hated seeing the damage—a forever reminder. Freaked him out.
He’d recovered from bullet wounds received when saving Layton’s life but struggled to process his altered reality. During the last case he and Einar had worked more than two years ago, he’d been killed. As in one hundred percent dead . . . and then reanimated. He’d emerged in a fog, not sentient, no longer human, manipulated and mutated into a monster. Hell, he was only around because two doddering senior citizens had failed to chop off his head.
Monster and mistake—an appalling double negative.
Monster. Had so many twisted meanings. What kind he wasn’t sure, but specifics didn’t matter as much as the whole sick concept. Wasn’t something anyone would be excited to find out, given the horrific possibilities—of gnashing fangs and claws, guts and gore. More like being hit by a semi, ground into cement, smashed into a million bloody pieces, scraped into a pile and then asked if you were feeling a bit under the weather.
With Einar and Kait’s help and much internal struggle, his memory returned. But it made things worse—he remembered being bitten, tortured. And dying. He’d told them the whole tale once, narrating nonstop with eyes closed because he couldn’t deal with their stunned expressions. He’d determined never to talk about it again.
He feared what anger unleashed. Like a rabid dog before final madness, it built to a crescendo of fangs and claws, but he had no idea of the parameters. Did other strong emotions cause reaction? It terrified him. He stayed in control by living a minimal cloistered existence. Never going beyond a strict set of rules. Boring as hell. Many days he wanted to smash his forehead into a wall or drink to oblivion, especially when he looked at her and thought how goddamn beautiful and strong she was. He ached to forget his fears, but didn’t want to find out how far he could go into viciousness. Paralyzed by soul-numbing terror—he might cause her destruction.
If he had a soul.
Now Kait sat in front of him, cajoling with words and touch. She was again doing her damnedest to pry him out into the world. She or Einar attempted it weekly, stalwart soldiers scaling his defenses one battlement at a time. He appreciated their dedication to his mental health and didn't take their faith for granted. He owed them everything.
Wanted to make sure they were safe.
They were wearing down his reserve. How many times could the tree be hit with the ax before falling? Still, dark fears crippled him—they’d be in his line of fire . . . of claws, jaws and teeth. Those closest to him could pay the highest price for loss of control.
He didn’t want to risk it.
Kait put a hand to his chin, pulling him out of his dark reverie.
“Michael . . . ”
“No. K, what if —”
“Relax—”
“No. Too dangerous.”
“I’ll worry about it.” She wrapped her arm around his shoulder. “I don’t care if you get mad. Don’t care if you monster out. Claws, teeth, screaming raving lunacy, flashing eyes and whatever.”
He shook his head. He loved her fearlessness but she’d never seen it happen.
“How do I get it through your brain?” She knocked on the side of his head and ran a hand through his hair. “How?”
He exhaled. “If anything goes wrong . . .”
“Call Einar.”
“But —”
“I have him on express dial. And Allison.”
Michael was silent.
“He’d drop whatever he was doing.”
“I know.”
“I’m asking you on a mission with skeletons, possible murders, and missing left hands. Wrapped in a veneer of weird culture. Your kind of macabre case—and no social interaction. None. At all. Except with me, that is.”
Damn, but she was pounding his reserve into submission.
“It’s creepy.”
He loved the spark in her eyes. He shook his head. Trying not to give in.
“Michael.”
“Playing with fire. Not a good idea.”
She grasped his hands. “Please. Let me in. You can’t hide forever.”
“Yes. I can.” He squeezed her fingers. “I have to . . .”
“You don't know that. Take a chance.”
“No.”
“Einar would appreciate it. He's getting crap from Layton.”
“Layton's an idiot.”
“Agreed. Do something about it.”
Michael ran a hand through his hair then let it fall hard on the arm of the chair.
She sighed. “You’ll piss off Layton if he finds out.”
He was silent.
“Really piss him off.”
He looked into her eyes.
“Maybe so much his head will explode. You'd make Einar's year.”
“No, K, I . . .”
She flailed her fingers open and apart in a starburst. “A meltdown akin to the apocalypse.”
He smiled. It was a persuasive argument.
“Come on. For you partner.”
“Former partner.”
“For me.”
He hesitated. After months of solitude, three unfamiliar words escaped. “I give in.” His lips bent into a half smile. “I’ll go, to help Einar. Creepy is intriguing. Pissing off Layton’s a bonus.”
“Good.” She smiled and kissed him. “It’s about time.”
Michael knew she considered it a monumental victory by the gleam in her eyes. He kissed her in return, holding her in his arms, fingers wound in her hair. Christ, it made him want her more. He kissed her with urgency.
Do not loose control.
In his head, he imagined the tipping poin
t, passion overwhelming reason. Fuck. He couldn't do that to her. He pulled away, hands shaking. “Maybe, on second thought . . .”
“Too late. You said yes.”
“K—”
“Can't take it back.”
He took a slow breath. “Nonspeaking, nonsocial role only.”
She sighed.
“Please. It's a start, okay?”
“Fine. Agreed.” She grasped his chin and turned his head to face hers. “One favor?”
“Yeah?”
“Shave.”
About S. E. Chase
S. E. Chase has spent a career as a curator, interpretive specialist and exhibition planner in history and technology museums. As is common in the 'many hats' world of nonprofits, she has written more than her share of grant applications, exhibition scripts, budget statements and management reports. She is the author of several nonfiction history publications about places and people in New York State.
After spending more than a decade in the snowy winters of the Finger Lakes and Upstate New York, she decamped to the more temperate Mid-Atlantic and Chesapeake Bay region.
S. E. loves traveling (and, yes, has been to Iceland), beer brewing, photography and exploring. She's a musician, artist, writer and lover of animals, currently answering to a cat and a Shiba Inu.
This is her first novel.
