My Soul Immortal (3 page)

“Excellent! I have lots for you to do.”

I smile, glancing around.
Nothing like stating the obvious.

“Every summer, the shop runs a lecture series. It’s a great way to bring in the tourists. The events aren’t grand affairs, just a bit of coffee and snacks of some sort. Sally’s an author, and her second book—or is it her third?” Ed stops and thinks, then shrugs. “Anywho, her next book is coming out in a few weeks, and we’ll be hosting the book’s launch as part of the series.” He smiles proudly.

“Sounds good.” I nod.

Before I leave, I drop the fairy-tale gem onto the counter.
Stupid. Idiotic. Self-defeating
. I should be avoiding the past, not bring a piece of nostalgia home with me. “I’ll take this one.”

“Ahhh,
Ancient Fairy Tales
. Good choice.” He shoves the book in a plastic bag with Rare Books printed in burgundy across the front.

I groan internally at my impulsive act and dig my wallet out of my back pocket.

Out on the wet sidewalk, I make it three blocks before wetness tickles my cheek. I glower at the sky. It had previously hinted of relief but changes its mind and opens the floodgates. I throw the clouds the one-finger salute, hug the bag close to my chest, and dart into the nearest shop to escape the downpour. Shaking the droplets from my hair, I look around and find a coffeehouse.

Old Port Java is alive with conversation and laughter. The aroma of brewing coffee fills the air. I grab a cup of dark roast and a bagel then sit to wait out the deluge. At a table tucked away in the corner, I mull over the poncho girl. “An apparition or flashback. Or, hell, a psychotic episode.” I chuckle without humor. The smallest trifle can spark a flashback: the scent of flowers—particularly roses—a familiar tune, a melodic laugh. But those eyes. No wonder the memories were so vivid and painful.

I wish I’d been more observant or been able to speak. All I remember is a strand of golden blond hair. And poncho girl’s rich-green eyes were comparable to a precious emerald. Lydia’s eyes. Over the years, I’ve had run-ins with eyes in all shades of green. There was that pair the color of moss in the Metro of East LA and a celadon set in New Orleans. Each time I was confronted, my stomach twinged or my limbs quivered. But nothing equaled this. Then again, never before were they her double.

That night in bed, I stare at the peeling, bubbled wallpaper that former tenants decided would look good on the bedroom ceiling. Interior designers, they were not. My one-bedroom apartment is furnished with an assemblage of mismatched seventies-style furniture, all probably found at yard sales. Despite the dull thudding of rap music through the wall behind my headboard, my mind is a hive of activity, swirling with impressions and theories about the young woman with the piercing eyes. Finally, close to three o’clock, sleep wins and claims me.

I open my eyes to a dream. Icy pellets of rain hit my face like a hail of bullets. I make my way back to the grove of elms. In the distance, Wind Rush House beckons to me. Even in the dimming light, the beauty of the rolling countryside can’t overshadow the limestone estate’s grandeur. My body is numb, but Dr. Edmunds’s damning words roll through my head.
There’s no more to be done.
I won’t accept that she’s dying. I can’t, because her dying means I die, too. I cannot exist without her.

With a quick shake of my head, I blink away any betraying tears and step beneath the canopy of swaying branches, where I kept vigil for the past week. The wind pierces my thin shirt. With trembling hands, I tug my frock coat tight around my chest, and I draw closer to the trunk where I asked Lydia to be my bride. Despite the storm, I feel as if I can sense a terrible stillness cloaking the old Jacobean-style manor, then a candle appears in the upper-east window. It’s Lady Ashford’s signal telling me Lydia’s alive. A relieved sigh breaks through my lips. I long to be with her and ache to comfort her, but Sir Robert will never invite me into the house again.

The sound of church bells resounds over the flurry of drumming rain. Then a lone owl screeches through the tall treetops. An omen. When I look at the window again, the light is gone, and the room is dark. I collapse against the unforgiving trunk. Nausea rolls over me, and I retch.

Chilled to the bone, I bolt upright in my bed, my heart pounding. My skin is drenched in sweat, and my breathing comes in labored bursts, fighting to keep pace with my heartbeats.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
I close my eyes, but my relief is snatched away by a pair of emerald eyes gazing back at me. Maybe those sparkling orbs are tattooed under my eyelids. How else could I see them so clearly?

“And how many times am I going to be forced to relive that night?” I hiss between clamped teeth, trying to conquer the pain of the swelling ache.

I struggle into a pair of jeans and yank on the striped shirt I laid out the night before. I grab my damp hooded sweatshirt from the coat hook and trudge down the stairs into the morning drizzle.

CHAPTER TWO

Blue.

Brown.

Blue.

Hazel.

Not one pair of eyes belongs to her.

The mist intensifies the salty scent in the air as the dampness persists. Unnerved by my new level of stupidity, I feel my frustration burn against the bleakness. If I were smart, I would be sitting in a warm coffee shop, sipping a cup of joe and gnawing on a poppy seed bagel. But I’m not. I’m here, leaning against a low brick wall that guards a collection of bedraggled petunias, on the street corner where I encountered that enigmatic girl one week ago. Obviously, age hasn’t made me wiser, because my obsession grows by the day, fueled by a gravitational force even I don’t understand. She’s not Lydia; she can’t be. I would be deceiving myself if I thought her eye color was due to anything more than ancestry or coincidence.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid…” I let my head fall back, and I stare at the clouded heavens, wondering if this pursuit has become more important than my own mental health. I grumble a string of curses behind my pursed lips when I silently confess the answer.

I’ve had two goals for over a hundred years—sanity and death. Psychologists would say those intentions lie in direct conflict with one another, but I’m fairly certain those doctors never handled a case like mine. For me, they’re linked. One relies on the other. Nevertheless, as I know all too well, goals sometimes lead to bad choices. The worst thus far were my dealings with Richard Hake. I might have been born immortal, but it was Hake and my actions because of him that awakened my appetite to kill.

In the spring of 1864, I left the fresh air and open spaces of Lidcombe for the foggy, teeming streets of London. I was still dealing with the reality that Lydia was gone, and after several failed attempts at death, I still hadn’t joined her. I tried to drown my sorrows in all the darkness London had to offer. As I struggled to hold on to the small amount of sanity I had left, I found the adrenaline rush of a Whitechapel fight house. The smell of sweat and blood permeated the room where men pummeled each other for money, thrills, and pride. My first fight left me with two dislocated ribs and a cut to my chin, but the next night, I returned. Strangely enough, the violence awoke something and helped me forget. Even though my release lasted only a moment, I welcomed the fleeting liberation. That was where Hake found me and spilled his golden words into my ear. Having heard his reputation on the crooked streets of the slums, I should have walked away right then, but he made a convincing argument I couldn’t refuse.

“I can make you rich, loved, and happy,” he promised. I didn’t care about the money, and I knew love dwelled out of reach. But the happiness guarantee—that caught my attention. One year later, Hake lay dead, and I was on the run. To this day, I still feel the same wintry prickle along my spine, the same evocative rush that arose the night I killed him. Before his murder, I had known I was different and unable to die, but after that horrific event, I realized how dark I really am on the inside.

“What kind of monster does that make me?” I mutter to the petunias.

I have no idea. This question has preyed on me ever since I realized I was different, because if I discover what I am, I might know how to die. Every creature of myth and legend has a means of ending its torment. Vampires have their stakes. Werewolves, their silver. If the fables ring true, then logically I should have one, too. However, years have passed, and I’m no closer to the truth. And my confidence in finding an answer has waned.

I breathe deep, filling my lungs with the dank morning air. With a glance at my watch, I realize I have precisely four minutes until I’m due at work. No time for coffee. I huff in disgust and push away from the wall. On the way to the bookstore, I’m captivated by every flicker of gold, and my head swivels toward each fair-haired girl.
This is out of control
, I think then force my searching gaze to the sidewalk. Part of me still wonders whether the whole incident is a delusion. That would mean I’ve failed—and my sanity is gone—but I’m not ready to concede. Not yet.

I arrive with a minute to spare. Ed is slouched behind the counter, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He absentmindedly chews on the end of a pen while scowling at the newspaper.

“Hey, do you know what a four-letter word for a Glaswegian girl might be?” he asks without glancing up from the crossword.

“Lass.”

“Ha. Right. Okay, try this one, kid. What are coffin flags called? Nine-letter word. Starts with a
B
.”

Kid? I suppose it’s better than Sport or Tiger.
I suppress a sigh. “No idea. Sorry, Gramps.”

Unimpressed, Ed shifts his eyes to me, and his heavy gray brows rise. “There’s coffee in the back if you want some, kiddo. Hope you can handle it. I like it strong. Then again, maybe it will put some hair on that chest.” He grins with self-satisfaction and returns to his paper.

In need of heat and caffeine, I chuckle and steer myself toward the office. As I drink, my icy hands cling to the warmth of the Styrofoam cup, and I realize that within a short time, Ed and I have fallen into an easy friendship of sorts. So strange. My life has been solitary for a century, not by choice, necessarily, but outliving everyone tends to ruin relationships.

“Which is the exact reason you should be avoiding the street corner and that girl, you idiot,” I grumble then suck down the last dregs of coffee and chuck the cup in the trash. A consuming heat overtakes my irritation at letting my thoughts roam to her again.

The busy morning gives way to a slow afternoon, and I force my mind to concentrate on a new shipment of books. But every time I lower my guard, the little thought-stealer slips into my head.

Around four, Ed pops his head into the office, an apologetic grin strung along his lips. “I need to take off a little early. Can you close up?”

“Sure. Everything okay?”

“Sally called. The pipes under her sink are leaking. Don’t know what she thinks I can do about it. Never been handy, but I probably should go over and give it the old college try.”

A few minutes after he leaves, the buzzer whines. A dozen steps toward the front of the store, I run straight into a sight I hadn’t expected. My breath hitches when I spy a slender woman gazing at the rows of books. Waves of gold cascade down her back. I slow as preservation fights for dominance. Struggling to suppress the conflict between my head and my heart, I force my feet to keep moving. My focus is transfixed by the swaying blond hair.

The woman turns and displays a set of deep-brown eyes, almost the color of chocolate. My lips surrender to the force of a disappointed exhale. I allowed hope to creep in, and my emotions paid the price. “How may I help you?” I ask, forcing a smile.

“I heard this was the best place for antique books.”

I nod.

“I’m looking for an early edition of
Pride and Prejudice
. Please say you have one.”

I want to roll my eyes, but I resist. The loss of Lydia has left me cynical, to be sure, but times haven’t changed all that much. Every woman still longs for her very own Mr. Darcy.
He doesn’t exist. He’s fictional.
I’ll never understand the attraction, but maybe that’s because I’ve known his type in the flesh. He’s never as appealing in person as he is on paper.

Chocolate eyes stare, waiting for an answer.

“Uh, yes, ma’am. We have a vast collection of Miss Austen this way.” I berate myself for my new round of stupidity as I lead the way toward the rear aisle.

After the girl leaves, purchase in hand, I flip the sign to CLOSED. It’s a little early, but my nerves are shot. “Maybe this is more than an episode. Maybe it’s a whole psychotic break.” I sigh. “I need a drink.”

After locking up, I walk out the door and into the puddle-strewn sidewalk. Instead of taking my usual route past a small park, I take a sharp right, cutting through the park. A blustery, salty wind whips through cramped alleyways leading to the ocean, making me shiver. I slip my hands into my pockets and hunch my shoulders although the actions do little to defy the chill. Evening settles in around me, staining the rows of uninspired brick buildings with elongated shadows. Two miles of walking down a deserted side street dumps me in a part of the city I’ve never seen. The buildings here show more wear than the parts of the city to which I’ve grown accustomed. I stop, glancing around to get my bearings. A small lit sign grabs my attention. ROSIE’S, it reads, with a slanted martini glass painted across the
R
. “Perfect.”

The bar’s boisterous atmosphere deters my sour mood. Blues music twangs in the background. Glowing advertisements for the different beers they stock line the walls. A waitress hustles around the small circular tables, delivering drinks, plates, and pails of peanuts. I slip onto a beat-up stool at the far end of the bar and catch the bartender’s attention. “Bottle of Prize.”

“Sorry.” She shakes her fiery hair at me.

Oh, look. A new layer of hell.
“Whatever’s on tap, then.”

“ID?”

A man sitting on the stool next to mine chuckles.