Fallen Eden (16 page)

His knuckles were blanching white. “In case I didn’t make myself clear,” he said, his voice shaking, “let me do a better job of that. Hell to-the No.”

I felt anger stirring. Now he was just being immature. I took a deep breath, hoping I’d put together my counter-attack as logically and unemotionally as I was capable.

“Let’s set aside the fact that you are a Guardian”—I looked at him pointedly—“and that you’re charged with preserving Mortal lives. Let’s not factor that into this because it’s not like that should be your number one priority or anything,” I said, hoping the sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “You know, given William’s involvement in this whole situation, he could end up having a foretelling of Paul’s death.” Just talking about him singed my throat. “Do you really want William to be the one to take this up the ladder when you can save him from that?”

Now to match his shaking voice, his hands were too. “Don’t you dare pretend to be asking for this for William’s sake. Don’t you dare act like you care about my brother,” Patrick said, his jaw set. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’d stoop to this new level of low to get what you want, but I am. You never cease to amaze me, Bryn,” he said, shaking his head. “And I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”

As if I could have thought he did. “I know this will likely fall on deaf ears,” I began, unsure if he was capable of hearing me in his state, “but I need to say this to you. I know I hurt William. I know I’m the worst kind of creature for doing it, too.” I stopped and took another breath. I was losing the battle of remaining unemotional. “I also know that I didn’t deserve him then and there was nothing I could ever do to change that.”

“Damn straight,” he said through his teeth.

“But despite everything, he’s found someone else. Someone he can live the rest of his days with in peace,” I whispered, tasting bitterness on the tip of my tongue. “He’s moved on, that’s all I wanted for him when I left. We should too.”

“Yeah, well, you first,” Patrick said, gulping down the last of his root beer. “I’m quite content to torture you every chance I get. And yeah, William has moved on, pretty much erasing you from his life.”

A spear through my chest would have felt like a gentle tap compared to what I felt. “So let’s not do anything that would change that,” I said, sounding as weak as I felt. “Will you petition the Council on Paul’s behalf?”

“Fine,” he said, sliding into William’s jacket, a tangible example of the torture he wanted to carry out. “I’ll do it. But don’t think for one second I’m doing this for you.” He slid out of the booth and slanted away from me. “I’m doing this for my brother.”

“Me too,” I whispered.

Patrick laughed darkly. “There’s that martyr again,” he said, nodding at the waitress smiling at him. “Be ready to go first thing in the morning. Meet me at the greenhouse.” He marched away from me, ignoring the waitress motioning him over. He stopped. “Oh, and Bryn?” he called out over his shoulder. “Be ready for a serious butt kicking.”

I flashed him a thumbs-up, but he wasn’t looking, before sliding down in my seat. Nothing like the promise of taking a serious beating to get one excited about rolling out of bed in the morning.

EXPERIMENT

So I didn’t roll out of bed the next morning. I bolted from it.

“Bryn.” Paul’s voice was no more than a ragged whisper, but it went off like a fire alarm in my ears.

I was throwing his bedroom door open before his mouth had closed around my name.

“Oh my gosh, Paul,” I whispered, frozen in place. It seemed impossible he could have taken such a turn for the worse in a mere eight hours since I’d last seen him.

Paul’s tan skin was gray, his cheekbones so sunken he looked more skeleton than flesh and blood. He was curled in a ball, wrapped around a garbage can that smelt like death. “What can I do?” I asked, feeling a fear rising within that Paul’s days were so numbered I could count them on one hand.

“Turn around,” he cried, waving frantically at me. His body convulsed right before he heaved into the garbage can.

I wasn’t sure if it was the stench or seeing Paul so ashamed and helpless, but I went into action like a wildfire was chasing me. I rushed into the bathroom, soaking a washcloth and filling a cup with water. I jetted to his bedside, prying the garbage can from him, trying my hardest not to curl my nose or, worse, dry-heave.

“Take a sip,” I said, having to lift Paul’s head to the cup. He took a hungry drink, as if he couldn’t get it in him fast enough and, just as fast, it came right back up.

“I’m sorry.” He coughed, sputtering up more water.

“I’m calling emergency,” I said, grasping Paul’s cell phone charging on the nightstand.

“No,” he said urgently, rolling onto his side.

“Like heck I’m not.” I powered on his phone, not sure if hitting 911 would get me anyone in Germany, but figuring it was a good first start.

His hand closed over mine, clammy and urgent. “I don’t want to die in a hospital. I want to die here, with you.”

I shook my head, looking away. “You’re not going to die.”

“Yes, I am,” he answered.

“Not if I have anything to do with it.” I slid my hand from his, pressing a shaking finger against the nine on the keypad.

“Stubborn to the end and I wouldn’t want it any other way,” he said, a smile in his voice. “But, to be frank, you really don’t have anything to do with it. I figure with the favor I gave you a few months back—in the form of promising a girl who had a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome I wouldn’t tell anyone she was alive—you owe me. Big time owe me.”

This got my attention, my finger slipped away from punching in the one. “This is totally different.”

“How so?” he asked, resting his head back on his pillow. I pressed the washcloth into his forehead.

“For starters, I was alive when everyone thought I was dead and you’re dying and want me to pretend you’re going to live.”

One side of his face squeezed together. “Those are just details. What this all boils down to is you asked a favor of someone you trusted and now I’m doing the same.” He cleared his throat, his voice growing raspier over each syllable. “Will you do the same for me, Bryn?” It was just a question, there was no undertone of begging or a nuance of a plea in it, but I felt the desperation in his words. As if sending him to a hospital would only send him to his death that much sooner. There was no way I could deny him this . . . his final request.

I nodded my weighted head. “Let me see if I can find something to make you more comfortable.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, as I headed out the hall. “Just in case you had any other grand adventures up your sleeve,” he called out to me “I don’t think I’m up for alpine sky-diving or base-jumping today. Maybe tomorrow.”

The ball in my throat made it impossible to respond. I stumbled into the guest bathroom, not sure if I’d rather kick a hole in the door or lean against it and sob until I ran dry.

Knowing neither would help Paul, I threw open the medicine cabinet and spilled out its contents, looking for something that could ease his pain or his nausea or, by some miracle, his impending death. The tears I held back blurred my vision, but not enough so that I couldn’t make out who was the prescribing doctor on every one of the white-capped, brown bottles. This time the sobs heaved me forward, so all I could do was grip the white marble sink and let my body convulse from the emotions I’d put a stopper in weeks ago.

I’d lost William, I was losing Paul, and, to be honest, I was losing myself. I was losing my footing on who I was—on everything that made me who I am and who I wanted to be. I was slipping into the recesses of a darkness that was as deep and inescapable as it was unending.

“Try this,” a voice said beside me, shaking a bottle in front of me. “Guaranteed to kill the pain in any creature size man to horse.” Patrick grinned at me. “Or make a girl forget her hysterics as quickly as they came on.”

I threw my arms around his neck, my tears saturating his collar. He drew me to him, letting me burrow deeper, his embrace so similar to William’s I didn’t want to let go. He was like manna from the heavens.

“Whoa, did I miss the forecast for a major ice-melt today?” he said, shifting awkwardly. He gripped my shoulders and pushed me back. I instantly missed his arms around me, holding me together. “It’s going to be alright, Bryn. Give him these and he’ll be dreaming of the land of oz before you know it.” He shook the pill bottle in front of me.

I reached for it, examining the label like I knew what to look for. “Are you sure this is alright for him to take?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said. “But believe it or not, I’ve picked up a thing or two being around two brothers who’ve been practicing medicine for a combined total of four centuries.”

“How many should I give him?” I asked, twisting open the bottle.

“One for lights out, two for knock out.” He grinned tightly. “When in doubt, error on the high side.”

“That doesn’t seem like very sound medical advice,” I scolded, before turning to leave, two pills in hand.

“Hey, I’m not a doctor,” he replied, amused.

I sighed and power-walked back to Paul. He was so still he could have been asleep, but his eyes were frozen open, as if he was . . .

I shook my head. I wouldn’t let myself think it. “Take these,” I said, handing him the pills. “These will help with the pain and let you sleep.”

He took them and pitched them in his mouth, swallowing them before I could hand him the water. “Thanks,” he said, looking me head to toe while a smile widened. “Another perk to saying sayonara right here.”  

“Do I want to know what you mean by that?” I asked, pulling the blankets around him and cinching them burrito-style around his body.

“No nurse I’ve ever seen is as fine as you,” he said, winking.

“I think that’s the pills talking, but thanks for the compliment. I guess.” I pulled the curtains closed and turned off the bedside lamp. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he asked, popping his eyebrows devilishly at me.

“Sweet dreams, sleeping beauty,” I said, watching his eyes fade, blurry already from whatever I’d just given him.

“Bryn?” he asked, his voice also affected by the drugs.

“Yeah?”

“Could you make sure I don’t sleep past four? I’ve got a paper due in World History and Coach needs me at practice early tonight.”

I swallowed. “Sure. No problem.”

“Thanks, Bryn” he said, his voice heavy with sleep. “And Happy St. Patrick’s—”

His voice cut-off and was almost immediately replaced by the steady breathing of deep sleep. I closed the door noiselessly, thankful Patrick was there—if for nothing more than a distraction.

“Mind telling me why you didn’t show up this morning?” Patrick asked when I rounded the corner into the living room. “We’re never going to complete your training if you don’t show up for the first day.”

“Please, Patrick,” I said, taking a seat on the fireplace ledge. “I was a little distracted this morning and I’m really not in the mood for training at the present moment.”

I sensed something before I heard it and I heard it before I saw it, but my hand worked faster than my senses. I caught the picture frame before it shattered against the fireplace, not sure if Patrick’s intended target had been it or me. “Distractions are everywhere, suck it up,” he said. “And, sorry, Charlie, but you don’t get the luxury of taking a day off because of boy issues or girl issues or whatever other B.S. issues you come up with. Not when you can kill someone as easily as you can irritate me.” He crossed his arms, his eyebrows tilted into a v.

I wanted to argue back. I wanted to tell him to take a hike. I wanted to tell him and the whole Immortal world to go screw themselves, but more than I wanted to do any of that, I knew he was right. There was no luxury of days off, or any luxuries for that matter, for anybody who could kill someone with the ease I could.

“So what’s the plan for today?” I asked, clasping my hands together, putting on my most attentive student face.

He pulled a rolled notebook from his jacket and tossed it at me. “This is Hector’s idea of talent training—individually prepared just for you.”

I thumbed it open, leafing through the first dozen pages, before skipping to the last page of the notebook, assuming the numbered questions gave out somewhere in-between. I should have known better. Hector’s elegant script scrolled to the very last page, even covering mid-way down the backside.

It’s a good thing we had forever because we were going to need it to get through this guide. I sighed against my best intentions not too.

“Where do we even begin?” I asked, thumbing back to the first page, where questions one through thirty-three were listed. Questions inquiring into simple, commonplace details. I couldn’t understand how my great-grandfather’s birthplace had anything to do with my training, but Hector must think it had some kind of bearing or else he wouldn’t have listed it . . .  among the thousands of others. But maybe, just like I was, he was at a loss. He was just taking as many shots as he could, hoping that one would eventually stick. I couldn’t blame him; it was more than I’d done to figure this thing out.

“First off,” Patrick said, pushing off the wall “toss that Boredom-lopedia in the fireplace.” He stopped, waiting for me. I looked for any hint of a joke in Patrick’s face, but it was stone serious. I dropped the notebook behind me in the fireplace, letting it fall from my fingertips at the last possible moment, waiting for him to retract his order.

“And next . . .” He pulled a match from the tin container beside me, swept it against his belt buckle, and tossed it into the hearth. The notebook ignited instantly, as if it had been soaked in kerosene. Blue flames fingered around it, shrinking it until the final remnants fell into tissue-paper shards glowing orange around the edges. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, mondo instruction manual to oblivion.”

I felt a little nauseous when the moment caught up with me. We’d just torched the only concrete plan anyone had formulated as to how to approach the delicate topic of my talent training. Probably not one of my best moments.

“Please tell me you have a plan,” I said, watching the last black scraps disappear. “
Any
plan.”

“I’m not a plan type of man,” he said, sounding proud of himself. “I’ve always considered myself more a man of action and Hector—bless his heart—likes to do things a bit more technically and, well,
slowly
than I do.”

“I’m feeling so reassured right now, Patrick. Thanks for that.”

“You wanna hear what I came up with or not?” he asked, gliding over to the wall of windows.

“Since I don’t really have any other options at the moment,” I replied, gazing longingly into the fireplace.

He crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the snow-blanketed mountains glittering in the morning light. “I’ve got a theory as to what triggers your gift. I don’t have anything scientific or historical to back it up, it’s just a hunch.”

His words were slow, carefully selected. So unlike Patrick that I knew whatever path we were going down was nothing short of legendary.

“That theory being?” I asked, eager to hear an outsider’s perspective, but dreading it at the same time. Nothing could be worse than the conclusions I’d arrived at . . . hopefully.

“So both times—that we know of—your gift manifested itself was in the Council chambers at Townsend Manor and that day in the clearing back home.”

Hearing him say home made something deep within ache. “Yeah. So?”

“What do both of those instances have in common?”

“Other than me killing, or nearly killing, a handful of Immortals?” I asked darkly.

He looked back at me. “On both occasions, your life was threatened.”

My brows wrinkled.

“If I’m right, and I often am,”—he grinned—“your gift is triggered when your life is threatened. Like it’s some kind of self-preservation thing hard-wired into your system. At the first sign of danger, it activates”—he smiled apologetically at me—“and eliminates the perceived threat before it can do the same to you.”

I stared back at him, letting this simmer. I suppose it made sense, but I’d never thought of my gift that way. It seemed more dark and evil to me than something that was for self-preservation purposes.