“That changes nothing,” Patrick said. “It doesn’t change that you left him and let him believe you left him for someone else.”
“No, it doesn’t change that. I know I went about this all wrong. I know I hurt him, but that’s only because I was scared I would wind up killing him, but I know now that whether we’re together or apart, we’re going to have death nipping at our heels.” I met Patrick’s eyes. “I’m going to quote a wise man by saying, we can survive alone or we can live together. I know which one I’ve chosen, I’m not going to run away from it anymore. I don’t know what he’ll choose after everything, but I’m going to find out.” I scanned the room; Joseph and Cora were smiling, Nathanial and Abigail were considering, Patrick was scowling, and Paul was . . . ready to erupt.
“Hold up a minute,” Paul shouted, rising and slamming his hands down on the table. “So you just used me as your pretend boyfriend?” The turquoise color of his eyes had changed, but they could still narrow with the same degree of accusation as they had before. “Did you plan our so-called ‘coincidental’ run-in back in Paris?”
“No,” I shouted back at him. “Of course not. I had no idea you were in Paris, but after the events leading up to us leaving that night, I knew I couldn’t let you out of my sight. When this guy arrived”—I tilted my head to Patrick—“I knew what conclusion he’d arrive at.”
“That I was your boyfriend,” Paul said.
I shrugged, gnawing at my lower lip. “Yeah.”
“So the only reason you kept me around was that I was a convenient ruse in the tall tale you told everyone. The whole time, you were thinking of him, wishing I was him,” Paul said, his voice tight.
“No, that’s not the only reason,” I said, hearing my own voice tighten. “I care about you, Paul.” I saw him ready his mouth to object. “Let me define—specifically—what I mean by ‘care’ about you. For the second time,” I said, garnering the desired effect. His mouth clamped shut. “You are my friend, as in: let’s hang out, let’s go get coffee, let’s high-five and play punch each other. I don’t mean friend, as in: let’s spend the rest of our lives together, let’s share a milk-shake from the same straw, let’s make-out.” I crossed my arms, drilling holes into him. “Emphasis on, let’s not make-out. Or force your lips on the other’s why they lay helplessly beneath you.”
Paul’s face reddened. “About that . . . I feel like an apology’s in order, but since I don’t actually regret doing it, an apology seems kind of forced. I wish I could say I didn’t feel anything from that kiss, but I did.” He looked away from me, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I guess I just had to see if you felt the same way. Considering your lips were about as welcoming as a clam, I guess you could say I figured out my position on the Bryn totem pole.”
I swallowed, wishing I could carve out that soft spot I had in my heart for Paul. As infuriating as he could be, there was something so raw and likeable about him. I couldn’t stay mad at him. “I’m sorry for everything, Paul. I really didn’t want to hurt you,”—I looked down, neither of us able to look at one another—“although I knew I probably would.”
“Forget about it,” he said, sniffing. “I let myself get carried away with it all, even though I knew you likely didn’t feel the same way. Would never feel the same way. Deep down I knew you’d always have it bad for that chump.”
“That chump is the one that saved your life,” Patrick snapped, glowering at Paul.
Paul’s face did the confusion thing. “What are you talking about, goldilocks?”
“What did you think happened?” Patrick asked, shaking his head. “You had a little fairy dust sprinkled on you and voila, you’re an Immortal?”
I wasn’t sure who was looking at the other with more doubt, but it lasted a while before Paul was able to collect his thoughts. “Since we’ve been a little preoccupied, I hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought yet.” His words were sharp and Patrick looked ready to snap back with the same edge before Joseph broke through the tension.
“Looks like someone needs to get enrolled in class.” Joseph smiled, raising his brows between Cora and me, waiting for us to join him in his tension diffusing mission. He was on his own.
“Better put genius here in base level moron,” Patrick said, having the courtesy to say it under his breath.
Paul’s eyes narrowed, but more out of confusion than anger. “Why did he do it? He can’t stand me almost as I can’t stand him.”
Patrick looked up, eyes like lasers penetrating me. “He did it for her.”
Paul’s face jumped up a few levels on the perplexed scale, before a light-bulb clicked on. “Because he thought I was your boyfriend,” he said, looking at me, not waiting for a confirmation, or maybe not needing one. “He’s a saint and I hate him. What am I supposed to do with that?” He turned away from us, moving towards a window, lost in his thoughts.
“This is all so very touching,” Patrick interrupted. “My heart is feeling all mushy-gushy after that pathetic make-up, break-up. . . whatever that was.”
“Oh, shut it, Patrick.”
I had to turn my head, close my eyes, and reopen them twice before I could believe who’d said it. Abigail was standing to the side of Nathanial, arms crossed and eyes slanted at Patrick.
You’d have thought Abigail had just swung a two by four at his head from the way he was looking at her. I’m sure my expression wasn’t far from that either, but Patrick recovered, a devilish grin taking over. “It looks like a bit of Bryn has rubbed off on you, too, Abby. It seems this whole family has a bad case of Bryn-fever.”
Abigail slid her hands down her dress, recomposing herself. “Well, you can’t thoroughly appreciate a prim and proper woman unless she raises a little hell every decade or two.”
Nathanial rung his arm around her waist, looking proud.
Abigail had achieved in one sentence what I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish in a decade. Patrick’s face was recomposed, like everything made sense now. “You love him?”
“So much I’ve become a complete idiot,” I said, nodding. “Obviously.”
“You always have?” Still the composed expression.
“Yes.”
“You always will?”
“Yes,” I vowed. “Forever.”
He studied my face, maybe looking for any sign that would prove my answers false. I wasn’t worried though, I knew he’d find nothing. There wasn’t a molecule of my make-up that wasn’t entirely devoted to William.
A smile cracked through, genuine and wide. “Well, what are you still doing here?” he asked, shrugging. “Go get him, killer.” I didn’t miss the irony in his voice, but I wasn’t going to waste any more time here now that everyone knew where I stood.
“Do you have any idea where he is?” I asked. “Any idea where I can find him?”
I looked around the room, but it was Patrick that answered, “Yeah, I’ve got an idea for you.” I snapped my head back to him. rrieHead north until you can’t go any farther. Don’t find him along the way, turn right and head east.” His smile resembled William’s one of mischief so close I almost felt butterflies. Almost. “If you don’t find him that way, turn right again and head south. Still nothing, one more right and head west. And I’ll tell you what. Even if it takes you fifty years of non-stop searching, you’d still have another hundred and fifty more to go to get a feel for what he went through looking for you.”
Our eyes met, a silent string of apologies exchanging between us. I smiled, before turning and heading straight for the door.
“Where are you going?” Cora called out after me.
“I’m getting after that north,” I answered, waving my farewell. I charged down the stairs, heading to the garage. I didn’t doubt my legs could carry me as quickly as any car could, but given I’d likely be travelling through many high-traffic areas along the way, I didn’t want the repercussions that would come when thousands of Mortals saw a woman sprinting like a comet down Main Street.
William’s Bronco, Charles’ pick-up, and Patrick’s Maserati were ready and waiting for me and, while William’s Bronco would have been the one I preferred all things being equal, I knew it couldn’t match the speed of the Maserati. The keys were waiting for me in the ignition, like an open invitation to all car thieves. I rolled my eyes at his carelessness, until I realized I fit into the car thieves’ category. My moment of guilt passed quickly, the reminder that William was out there, somewhere, alone, chasing it away.
I brought the engine to life, pressing the garage door opener, shifting into first so I could make a break for it the second I knew the Maserati’s roof could clear the retracting door by an inch. My foot was caught in the air right before I slammed the accelerator, halted by a tapping on the window.
I glanced over, rolling the window down, not hiding my surprise to see who was there. She handed me a folded piece of paper. “This should help,” Abigail said, her eyes warm.
I unfolded the note, finding a location—an exact location—scrolled down in black sharpie in Abigail’s cursive. “Is this—”
She nodded. “I think he wanted someone to know where he was in case you ever came looking for him. He never gave up hope.”
I felt tears pricking in the corners of my eyes. I opened my mouth, attempting to pry words to the surface, but my throat constricted around each one.
“You’re welcome,” Abigail said, understanding. “Bring him home.”
“I will. And, thanks,” I said, finally able to manage a few words.
Abigail backed away from the car. “Oh, Bryn?” she said, her voice innocent.
I looked over at her. “Yeah?”
“If the Council gives you and William any more trouble,”—she smiled, back in her demure and proper mode—“give ‘em hell.” She winked at me.
“Planning on it,” I said, pounding the accelerator to the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NICARAQUA
To say the Maserati stood out in Central America was kind-of like saying my five foot ten inch frame, topped off with pale blue eyes and fair skin, blended in with the locals, so I tucked it away in some abandoned barn that was more falling than standing—Patrick would have gotten a hernia if he knew—and trekked the rest of the way on foot. I made great time and, given the roads weren’t “roads” by my definition—they would have been consider bike trails where I was from—I couldn’t have made better time with the car.
Nicaragua was like something from another time, so unspoiled and wild with organic green foliage, I half-expected to run into a dinosaur lumbering about the jungle. I’d never heard of the village Abigail had written down for me and even if I had the luxury of being able to plug it into the Maserati’s GPS, I doubted it would have pulled anything up.
I’d made it to the capital city of Managua with no problem and there, locals told me to head southwest until I ran into a village hidden just outside of the Mombacho Cloudforest—if I ran into the dormant volcano, or the sprawling lake, turn around, I’d gone too far.
Sounded simple enough to me. That was, until I started hacking through the jungle that seemed never-ending and as if it was intentionally putting barriers right in my path. After several hours of leaping over fallen banyan trees and lunging through vines, I realized I should have been competed in the hurdles instead of the two-hundred meter.
Night had blanketed the Cloudforest an hour ago and, while I didn’t have any problem seeing, there was something creepy about this place. I knew it likely had to do with the foreign sights, sounds, and smells more than anything. The haunting song of howler monkeys was all around me, as if I’d walked right into the middle of a family of them, but no matter how long I progressed, their song never dimmed. Either the Cloudforest had howler monkeys like Central Park had pigeons or they were following me. Orchids that were sweet in an overwhelming, luscious kind of way fragranced the air, mixed with the musty scent of damp earth.
Growing more desperate, I picked up the pace, catching my toe on an exposed snake of a tree root a few strides later—clumsy even in Immortality. I stopped; I’d been break-necking it through this place for miles, relying on sight, smell, sound, and sheer need to guide me to him, but the way I’d found him most—best—was through feeling. Skin-to-skin contact not required.
I closed my eyes, drowning out the forest’s chorus, and focused on nothing but him. The way I felt when he was near, the way he absently drew patterns in my hands for hours, the way our fates had fused together.
My eyes flashed open. “Thank you,” I kneeled to the ground, kissing the cragged root that had tripped me up long enough to remember what I was searching for, and what sense I needed to rely on to find him.
I tore through the trees, sure if anyone were out here they would have sworn they saw a streak of lightning bolting through the forest. I followed that energy I would have missed if I didn’t pause long enough to feel it, because it had been that faint, but as I advanced toward it, I felt its strength growing. Like a heartbeat in the night, beckoning me to it.
Limbs and branches broke across my face. Leaves, bark, and goodness only knows what else found their way into my clothes, but none of it slowed me down. He was here, nearer every step. My search had only taken a couple of days, a few tanks of gas, and across a couple of continents, but the exhilaration of having found him after my seemingly arduous search was the best kind of feeling of success. I couldn’t begin to imagine how it had felt for him to find me after a couple centuries of searching.
A woman’s wail brought me to a standstill. It had sounded more animal than human, but it was accompanied by a couple other female voices, low, soothing words spoken in Spanish. I’d found the village; I’d found him.
Another wail, as if the poor woman’s insides were being torn from her, followed by more words of comfort. I didn’t speak Spanish, but the emotion outlining the words didn’t require a translation.
I crept forward, careful not to make a sound. I pushed aside a couple of mammoth sized shiny leaves and was overwhelmed with the light coming from the makeshift tent a ways in front of me and it wasn’t from the lanterns buzzing in the darkness.
His hair hidden beneath a handkerchief, his mouth behind a paper mask, his eyes rimmed with dirt, sweat, and sleepless nights I’d never been so blinded by his beauty.
I came out from behind my hiding place, no conscious thought of it, going to him like he was my mecca and I’d never needed my pilgrimage more.
He said something in Spanish to the woman sprawled on the medical cot before him, encouragement unmistakable in his tone. The woman curled up into herself, her face bursting with blood vessels and droplets of sweat. A scream ripped through the air, so primitive the howler monkeys were silent for a moment, as if trying to figure out who this newcomer was.
The woman’s endless scream halted me, mid-step. I couldn’t imagine the kind of pain she was bearing and that William was standing at the end of the cot, doing nothing more than speaking a few low words. Her scream cut-off, mid-note, and, almost immediately after, a new sound shot through the air. Not quite a scream, not quite a cry, but a little of both. It was beautiful, though, and filled me with something so raw I choked on a few sobs.
William had his back to me, his arms wrapped around something, as one of the other women in the tent hurried over to him with a blanket in hand. He reached for it, tucking it gently and efficiently around whatever was bundled in his arms. I took a few more steps forward, staying low to the ground, to get a better look.
His shoulders suddenly tensed, as if he’d just been zapped by something, and his attention was diverted from the scene playing out in the medical tent. His head turned, though not all the way, but just enough for me to flatten myself to the ground like I was about to get caught sneaking into my room after curfew.
I waited a few seconds before chancing a look up, not knowing why I was acting like I was terrified he’d see me . . . I hadn’t come thousands of miles just to sneak a peek at him.
Although I certainly would have if I couldn’t have any more than this.
And then I realized this might be all I’d get to have of him for the rest of my eternity. Stolen glimpses from hidden perches. Sounded stalker scary, but that was a title I was willing to wear if this was all I could have of him.
I took a quick look, before looking back away, just in case he’d discovered me sprawled out like a Marine in the Central American mud. He was looking away again, speaking soft whispers to the beat of his rocking body. The part-cry, part-scream quieted and everything seemed alright again. He turned to the exhausted woman, whose face had the look of unbridled joy, as if she hadn’t just been heaving in pain. I looked at William’s face as he lowered his mask and felt chills run down my spine. But the good kind of chills, the kind that make you feel all gooey and happy.
It was a flash of movement that broke the love affair my eyes were experiencing watching his mouth, a flash of olive colored flesh, still shiny and wet. The way William cradled the baby to him, firm but gentle, would have sent my internal clock into a tailspin if it wasn’t on eternal time-delay.
The woman said something to him, gripping his forearm when he lowered the baby into her waiting arms. His smile burst and he nodded his head, tucking the baby into the crux of her arm. He kissed the woman’s forehead before going over to a basin steaming with water. He dipped his blotted hands in it, rinsing and rubbing them together, and I was mesmerized. Mesmerized like I was experiencing the seven wonders of the world all at the same time. How could anything be more enthralling than the man I loved washing his hands from the work of delivering a baby in the thick of a Central American jungle?
He swept the handkerchief from his head, running his hand through his hair a couple of times, and the ache within me shot up a few notches.
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