Earthbound (25 page)

The handwriting is the same, but Benson’s right: it’s impossible to read.

I turn to Quinn’s much shorter diary instead.

Quinn’s journal doesn’t go into depth, but the brief descriptions are enough. If Quinn is to be believed, these two groups—
brotherhoods
, he calls them—have had their fingers in everything from the French Revolution to the Knights Templar to the councils of Nicaea. History changing.

History
making
.

And I should have realized how ubiquitous the triangle has been as a symbol throughout history. The Templars, the Masons, the Egyptians; hell, it’s on our dollar bills. The Earthbound—and through them, these brotherhoods—are etched across the history of civilization.

If I was scared before, I’m
terrified
now.

No wonder they seem to always be a step ahead of us. They’ve had
thousands
of years of practice.

When I hear the door unlock, my heart leaps and races. Benson pokes his head in tentatively—probably to check if I’m sleeping—before slipping in.

I glance at the clock and am shocked to see that it’s been two hours since he left. I scarcely noticed the time passing.

He comes in and shuts the door behind him without a word. He stands with his back to me for a long time, and when he finally turns, I lift both of my hands to my mouth with a gasp. His eye is purpling in what’s sure to be a major shiner tomorrow, and a scrape on his upper cheekbone has a smear of blood across it. His hair is mussed and the knuckles on his right hand are bleeding through a napkin.

“Holy crap, Benson, what happened to you?” I rush to him, but he puts out a warning hand and I pull up short.

“Please don’t,” he says, and his voice is brittle, almost to the breaking point. “I think my ribs are bruised.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Get your stuff, we have to go.”

“What do you mean go?”

“Not far, but we aren’t safe here. There’s another hotel across the street.”

“But—”

“Please Tavia, there’s no
time!”

The desperation in his voice shocks me into action. I circle the room, grabbing everything I can see and throwing it into my backpack. I hold my loaded bag against my chest and huddle beneath my coat as Benson opens the door again. Chilly air rushes in and swirls around my bare calves and sockless feet shoved into tennis shoes, but when Benson turns to ask if I’m ready to run, I nod.

We sprint through the snow, struggling not to slip on the iced pavement as we cross from one hotel parking lot into another. Benson leads the way around to the far side of a long wing of rooms and then reaches into his back pocket. “Stand over there, in front of me,” he says, pointing.

I do, confused, but understand when I see Benson working on the old dead bolt with his tiny lock picks.

“You didn’t
book
us a room?” I whisper.

“Do you
want
to be dead by morning?” he retorts, in a completely uncharacteristic display of impatience.

That’s when I understand how scared he is. “No,” I answer softly. “Thank you.”

The door opens moments later and Benson gestures me inside. He drops my backpack as he flips on the light, revealing what could have been a mirror image of the room we were just in. Different colors, one less lamp, utterly interchangeable.

The silence feels thick between us.

“What happened to you?” I finally ask, hating the suspicion that he ran into
my
trouble. My mind flashes back to Sunglasses Guy, who apparently managed to track us up to the library. And we really haven’t been that careful this evening. Not careful enough.

“Can we not talk about it?” Benson asks, and he sounds so weary that I almost relent, but I can’t just
not
know.

“The quick and dirty basics,” I say.

“I went to a pawnshop like I told you and turned in the gold for cash, and I was so focused on how much I got us that I was sloppy. Didn’t watch out. It was dark and I … I was easy to sneak up on.”

“Oh no,” I say, knowing what’s coming.

Benson turns away and starts emptying his pockets onto the bedside table, including a thick fold of twenties. Or are those hundreds? He continues wearily. “So a guy jumps out and puts a gun to my head and demands to know where you are.”

“Where
I
am?” I was right; my stomach feels sick. “What did you do?”

Without turning he lifts his wrapped fist. “I punched him in the teeth.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “He didn’t like that very much,” he says, gesturing to his blackening eye.

I swallow hard, wondering if he broke any bones in his hand or just the skin. “How’d you get away?”

“I got in a couple good hits, gun fell in the snow, and I managed to get in the car. He didn’t shoot. Probably didn’t want to kill me before he found out where you are.”

“Benson.” My fingers skim up his back, over his damp coat.

“Just don’t,” he says. “Please.”

“Okay,” I whisper, not understanding.

“You’re clean,” he mumbles in halfhearted explanation. “And I totally reek. You don’t want to touch me.”

“I—” But what am I supposed to say? The truth is that I want to touch him so badly I can hardly keep myself still. But that won’t help anything.

“I should shower,” he says, and I turn, trying to give him the privacy he’s so blatantly asking for, but after a few seconds I hear muffled cursing. I turn and see that he’s managed to slide his peacoat off but is struggling to unbutton his shirt with his injured hand.

“Let me help.” I rush up and Benson jumps away like a skittish rabbit. He looks almost as weary as I do—as though he’s aged five years in the last week.

I pause and study him for a moment with my artist’s eyes. I wonder if I look that way too, if that’s what had Reese so concerned. Does it show in my face the way it does in Benson’s? If so, I
can’t
hide it.

“Benson,” I whisper, soft but firm. He settles down, but his eyes still have that wild look. I move slowly, unfastening all the buttons down the front first, revealing his white T-shirt beneath. Then I unroll the sleeve on his left arm; the right one’s already ripped up to his elbow.

“I can take it from here,” he says, but I fix him with a firm glare and he remains docile as I carefully peel the wet fabric away and lift the tail of his undershirt to look.

“Oh, Benson,” I whisper. His entire torso is covered with purpling bruises that look about as bad as the one on my hip. “Turn,” I say, but he grabs the bottom of his shirt and plants his feet firmly without a word.

I give up. It doesn’t matter. If his back is anything like his chest, I’m not sure I
want
to see it. “Are you sure none of your ribs are broken?” I say, shocked at the beating he took.

Because he wouldn’t betray me.

“I’m not sure of anything,” he says in a low, raspy voice.

Slowly, I reach for his chin and turn his face from one side to the other, examining. He closes his eyes, and I bite my lip at the split skin on his cheekbone and a scratch I didn’t see at first that goes up into his hairline, probably from the bent earpiece of his glasses. “Ben,” I murmur, and from beneath his closed lids a single tear slips out, tracing down his cheek. Stepping on my toes, I lift myself without leaning on him and kiss it away, the salt bitter on my lips, and I seethe inside at the person who would do this to my Benson.

I crouch and realize just how much this has broken Benson’s spirit when he sits on the bed without even being told and lets me untie his shoes. He protests briefly when I start to pull off his socks, but he doesn’t put up much of a fight.

His breath sucks in as I reach for his pants. “Just the button,” I say from where I’m bent close to his shoulder, “then you can shower.”

He nods, and after I carefully unfasten his pants, I take what looks like an unbruised elbow and help him up. He stifles a groan and shuffles into the bathroom.

I stare at the closed door for a long time. Guilt boils inside me, filling me with acrid shame. Benson wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be hurting, if it weren’t for me. There’s no way to argue my way out of it; this is my fault.

I lie helplessly in the bed listening through the thin walls as Benson gets in, then out of the shower. The hotel blow-dryer turns on and runs and runs, and I wonder if he’s actually doing something with it or just trying to cover up the sound of his soft noises of pain. Almost half an hour passes before Benson opens the door, freshly showered and looking a little better.

Not quite so defeated.

“You’re still awake?” he asks, averting his gaze, hiding behind the door so only his head and shoulder are visible. His water-darkened hair is wet and freshly combed, but not styled, making him look younger than usual.

“Waiting for you,” I say from the bed, wondering where I found the courage. I twist my fingers together, not sure if I’m more drunk on fear or anticipation.

A red flush fills Benson’s face as he turns off the bathroom light and steps out from behind the door. Now I understand and have to hide a little smile. Unlike me, he doesn’t have any clean clothes—he’s clad in his undershirt and a pair of boxers, probably fresh-dried courtesy of the blow-dryer.

“I’m sorry there’s only one bed,” he mumbles, still not meeting my eyes. “I didn’t have time to check out the place. I just . . I just … I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

“You don’t have to,” I blurt. “I mean, you know, there’s plenty of room.”

“I—I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

I nod, trying to disguise my disappointment. I pull up the heavy but warm blankets that feel cloud soft after trying to sleep, cold and wet, in the car. But my eyes might as well be glued open.

Benson grabs the extra blanket out of the closet and shakes it out, then spreads it over the couch that’s more like a love seat. With his height I know his feet will hang over the edge, and I can’t decide if the mental image is more hilarious or devastating. As he leans over, his white T-shirt stretches across his shoulders and underneath I can see the shadow of something black. I force back a little smile when I realize it’s a tattoo. It’s what he didn’t want me to see when I was trying to take his shirt off. I wonder what kind of ink a guy like Benson would get.

I wonder if it’s something he regrets.

When he’s done making his “bed,” Benson looks down at the sparse couch. I wish I could
make
him something better. Despite my reluctance to use my powers, I wouldn’t hesitate for him. Not for a second.

But what good is a disappearing bed? I feel so helpless.

I realize Benson’s staring at my bed, over to where a second fluffy pillow sits beside the one I’m lying on.

I see his hesitation, but this tiny piece of comfort gets the better of him and he walks forward and gestures at the pillow. “May I?”

“Of course.”

I feel so
proper
.

His long arm reaches out for the pillow and I grab his wrist. “Stay?” I ask.

Just one word.

He gives me a tight smile. “No, really, we’ll both sleep better if …” His voice trails off and he gestures at the sofa, backing toward it even as words fail him. He turns the light off and I hear him settle on the couch with a rustle of the blanket.

I try to sleep, but the bed seems too big and I feel oddly unsafe. “Benson?” I whisper after twenty minutes of trying to calm my racing brain.

He shoots straight up at the sound. “Are you okay?” he asks, panicked.

Guilt shoots through me; he had probably just gotten to sleep. “I’m cold.”

“I’ll turn up the heat,” he says, without a trace of reluctance in his voice, his blanket already tossed aside.

“Not like that,” I say, and my heart pounds in my ears.

“What?”

“Not like that,” I repeat. “Ben, please just hold me.” My voice is strong at first but barely audible as I finish.

“Tave, I … I shouldn’t. You don’t—” Something oddly sob-like cuts his voice off and then before I know what’s happening, the blankets are flung back from the empty side of the bed and Benson’s arms are pulling me almost savagely to him—he groans as his arms crush me against his ribs.

“Careful!” I warn. “I’m hurting you.”

“I don’t care,” he gasps, his lips brushing against my neck, his fingers buried in my soft, clean hair. “I want you so badly I don’t even care.” He brings me hard against him, his fingers digging into my back in a pain that feels like pleasure, and I understand him better now.

And then his lips are on mine, part savage, part flower-petal soft, and I grasp at his shirt, pulling him to me. My legs tangle with his, our hips meeting, melding, as his fingers skim the skin between my pants and T-shirt.

Every nerve in my body is on fire, singing angelic refrains that echo in my head, blocking out all words, all doubts, all fears. I kiss him with abandon, not caring that I hardly know what I’m doing. It doesn’t matter; with Benson everything is right. I don’t stop until we’re both gasping for air. His hands sweep my short hair off my forehead before pulling my face against the warmth of the skin just above the neck of his shirt, tucking my head beneath his chin.

There are no more words as we lie there together, our hearts beating fast at first but slowing to thump almost in tandem. I release my breath in a long sigh, and my whole body relaxes for the first time in what feels like weeks. I want to stay awake, to savor the feeling of lying in Benson’s arms without the frantic desperation that has accompanied most of our interactions that even hint at romance. But my consciousness floats away all too soon, and when I open my eyes again, it’s morning.

H
e’s beautiful in the morning sunlight.

Beautiful
seems like a funny word to use for a guy, but it’s fitting. The line of light shining in from the window makes the tips of his eyelashes glow, and despite the purple bruise beneath his eye, he looks boyish without his glasses.

He wakes up slowly and smiles when he realizes I’m watching him. “I was a little afraid it was a dream,” he says, his voice gravelly.

We must have both been totally exhausted, because it’s almost eleven by the time we wake up. I’d like to linger—even spend the day shut up together with one shower and one bed—but the fact that we’ve managed to evade my tails for a full twelve hours makes both of us anxious to get back on the road and
stay
one step ahead of them.