Immortal Mine (19 page)

It would be enough, dealing with hurting her
on top of her grief, but then to see her grandmother, know what she
is.... She recognized us—Shane and I—immediately as well. Not who
we are, but
what
we are. We can all recognize one
another.

Knowing that Niahm’s grandma is immortal
fills me with conflict. Hope, larger than before, that Niahm
herself might be immortal as well. Fear that all of my hope will
come to naught, and I’ll be forced to watch her die. Dread that I’m
now confronted with dealing with a new, paranoid immortal.

We immortals are a suspicious lot. There
aren’t many of us who can coexist together peacefully. Many
immortals have become arrogant and malicious, fearing no
consequence for any of their actions, no matter what they do.
Death, the worst thing most humans can imagine, is not an option
for us. Those particular immortals are the reason the Sentinels
exist, to eradicate those who would use mortals for their personal
pleasure or gain. The Sentinels are the only mortals who know how
to kill us.

The problem is the Sentinels don’t know who
is who, and therefore try to kill any immortal they come across.
No, that’s not right. They don’t “come across” us—they hunt us. And
they, though mortal, are not beyond corruption themselves. Some of
them simply hunt us for the sport, for the achievement—and for the
padding of their bank accounts. The Sentinels don’t care about the
right or wrong of what they do. They simply use it as justification
for their own evil deeds.

Jean, in her short time as an immortal, has
learned to be fully suspicious of other immortals. This makes me
question why, wonder if she’s already losing her conscience. She
wouldn’t be the first to lose it so quickly. Now I have even more
reason to worry about Niahm. If Jean even suspects that Niahm could
be like us, she might decide to stop her before she can become a
threat. I can’t take the risk of that happening; I also can’t do
anything that would further hurt Niahm. I could see—when I took her
hand to read her non-existent, as it turned out, hatred for me—that
though she’s angry with her grandmother, there is an instinctive
love that resides within her for this one last living relative she
has.

“Earth to Sam,” Niahm says lightly, waving
her fingers in front of my eyes. I give the Irish one final pat,
and turn toward her.

“Finished?” I ask, nodding toward Sheila,
who she’d been grooming.

She nods, seeming almost shy, shuffling in
the hay that litters the floor of the stable.

“Everything okay?” I say, lightly running my
thumb across her cheek.

She glances up at me, and I’m struck once
again by her eyes.

“Do you think...” She clears her throat, and
begins again. “Do you think it’s too soon to go back to
school?”

I’m surprised by her question, and then
realize she probably thinks I’m a good one to ask, having lost my
own parents. I can’t tell her that not only was I not in school at
that time. It’s been so long I can’t really give a timeline as to
how long I grieved. It’s been ten days since her parents were
buried—three since Jean showed up. Three of the longest days of my
very long life.

I place my hands on her shoulders, rubbing
lightly up and down.

“Niahm, only you can decide that.”

“You think people will talk…think I’m
unfeeling?”

I smile at her. “Everyone in town knows you
well enough to know that is as far from the truth as possible.”

“I haven’t always been the nicest person.”
She grins wryly. “You should know that better than anyone.”

“Yes, but I also know as well as anyone that
it’s all bluster. You are a kind, loving person who loved her
parents. Not one person will doubt that—now or ever.”

Tears shimmer in her eyes. She doesn’t let
them fall.

“I just feel like I’m going crazy sitting
around here all day. I spend all my time trying to avoid Jean,
which gives me too much alone time. I need to keep busy, keep my
mind occupied. I need my friends.”

I pull her close and give her a hug, which
she returns without hesitation.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

She leans back and grins happily up at me. I
move my hands up to caress the sides of her neck. I can’t help
myself; I lean down and kiss her lightly. She freezes in surprise
for a moment. Then innocently she returns the kiss, her arms
tightening around my waist. It’s the most amazing sensation I’ve
felt in nearly five centuries, taking all my strength to keep my
knees from buckling with overwhelming feeling. With my thumbs I
urge her to slant her head, which she readily does, allowing me to
deepen the kiss.

The true depth of my loneliness has been
kept from my awareness until this moment. Centuries of doing
nothing more than existing, waiting for this feeling, seem suddenly
crushing, unbearable. In the far reaches of my mind, I comprehend
the vulgarity of giving Niahm her first kiss in the middle of a
smelly barn, standing in dirt and hay, both of us smelling like
horses. I no more have the strength of will to stop than I do to
walk away from Niahm without her command. I do have the strength,
however, to keep from pouring my feeling, my passion, into the
kiss. That would surely terrify her, send her running from me
faster than I could chase.

I finally manage to pull back, blinking to
keep the intense emotion from showing in my eyes. Niahm’s eyes have
tears in them as well, and I immediately worry that I’ve hurt her
again. Or scared her. Maybe I wasn’t as restrained as I’d
thought.

Then she smiles at me. “Well, it’s about
time,” she laughs.

I grin foolishly as Sam drives away, as I
enter the house—even the sight of Jean sitting at the kitchen table
doesn’t wipe it away—as I breeze past her and up the stairs, as I
fall asleep. I even wake with the grin still on my face. I can’t
help but wonder why in the world I waited so long to experience
such an amazing thing. Then again, maybe it’s only because it was
Sam who kissed me that makes it so amazing.

I relive the kiss, the feeling of having his
mouth pressed against mine. At first light, almost a butterfly’s
touch—until he tilted my head. Then it became more like a stampede,
the steady pounding of hooves beating along my nerves in a way that
left my head spinning.

I’m still grinning as he picks me up, and he
smiles back with something like relief in his face. I know he still
feels guilty about hitting me, no matter how many times I’ve told
him I hardly blame him. It was an accident. He claims he only went
after her because he thought I was in danger. It seems a lame
excuse, I mean, how could one little old lady be a threat? Of
course, if I’m being honest, Jean isn’t exactly some withering
little prune. She’s strong and vital, and looks much younger than
her true age.

Luckily, the social worker apparently wasn’t
concerned enough to stay to make sure I was okay. Glad I’m not
relying on her to take care of me. I let it go because even Jean
doesn’t want to talk about it, brushes it off as unimportant, a
misunderstanding. It’s all a little strange to me, but my euphoria
over the kiss overrides my suspicions.

As I walk through the school doors, and am
immediately surrounded with hugs and sympathy by the double-H,
followed by almost the entire rest of the school body, at least
those who are in the upper grades, my grin fades. I feel a moment
of deep remorse for my happiness. How dare I feel so happy when my
parents are gone?

Sam takes my hand, gives it a squeeze as if
he knows what I’m feeling. Maybe because of the sympathy for me I
don’t receive a single glare from any of the other girls all day in
spite of the fact that Sam is constantly at my side, and always
either holding my hand or encircling me with his arm. Beneath my
guilt, I feel a worm of pleasure at the gestures.

The overpowering grief—which feels like it
is here to stay for the duration of my life—is in a maelstrom of
turmoil with guilt at my strong, consuming desire for Sam to kiss
me again, and wondering how soon he will. By the end of the day,
I’m exhausted from the emotional turbulence, and from the false
assurances I’m required to give everyone, telling them that I’m
fine, when I’m anything but.

Sam comes home with me, of course, but he
heads to the barn to prepare to work with the Irish again. I enter
the house, determined to complete my homework quickly, then my
chores, so that I can be with him.

“Niahm.”

I cringe at the sound of my name coming from
the woman who has interrupted my life and reminds me by her very
presence that my mom and dad will never be coming home again. My
father will never again sing with me in his horrible, off-tune—

“Niahm,” she repeats, and I turn angrily
toward her, swallowing the tears.

“What!” I demand.

Jean flinches at my tone, but steps toward
me, anyway.

“We need to talk.” Her voice is calm, which,
of course, only serves to irritate me.

“Not now, I’ve got homework,” I say rudely,
turning toward the stairs. Her hand on my arm startles me. How in
the world had she crossed the room so quickly, so quietly?

“Now,” she says firmly. I might have refused
again, except that for one moment, she sounds—and smells—eerily
like my mother. Desperate for anything that reminds me of her, I
follow her to the kitchen table. Once seated, however, her face
reminds me that nothing will bring back the one I long for, so I
sullenly cross my arms and lean back against the chair, hoping my
body language will convey my irritation and boredom to her.

“I know things are bad—”

Her words compel me out of my chair. This is
a conversation I
definitely
don’t want to have with her.

“Please,” she says, quietly. I sink back
down into the chair, emotions barely contained beneath the
surface.

She takes a breath, seems to consider her
words as she watches me, and finally begins anew.

“I know you don’t like me,” she begins, and
I interrupt her.

“I don’t know you well enough to like or
dislike you,” I say.

“Hmm,” is her sardonic response. “Well, then
perhaps we should rectify that.”

I nearly roll my eyes at how I’ve painted
myself into a corner with this one. The last thing I want to do is
spend time with the woman who abandoned us all.

“Look, Niahm, this isn’t easy for me,
either. You seem to forget that Beth was my daughter. You’ve lost
your mother, and I’ve lost my daughter.” Her eyes cloud with tears.
Oh, this is too much!

“You mean your daughter that you abandoned
all those years ago? The one who thought you were dead, who grieved
for you like I grieve for—” I stop, refusing to give her my
emotion.

She takes another deep breath.

“I think she knew I was alive.”

I scoff. “Delude yourself if you must,” I
laugh harshly. “She would hardly tell me you were dead, stop
looking for you if she thought….” A thought enters my mind even as
I say the words, and I suddenly know it’s the truth.

“She wrote to me,” she says, apparently not
noticing the panic that envelopes me. I struggle to push it back. I
have to finish this conversation, so that I can talk to Sam. Then
her words penetrate and I shake my head.

“What do you mean, she wrote to you? How
would she know where to send a letter?”

She smiles, not at me but at some distant
memory, and her smile is that of my mother.

“When she was little, we used to play a
game. We would write notes to one another, hide them in the crook
of the tree behind our house.”

“What are you saying? That she left you
notes in your tree, that she would travel to the city just to... ”
Of course she would, each time she and my father flew into or out
of the country. And it fits in with the theory that continues to
grow in possibility in my mind. Jean simply watches me, waiting.
Another trait shared by her daughter.

“Where are they?” My words are quiet.

“I have them. And I found the ones I’d
written to her in her armoire.”

A surge of anger flows through me, that she
would dare search my mother’s belongings. But of course she would,
she was her daughter. The anger is as much at myself for not having
looked through her things before Jean was able to. And at my
mother—why didn’t she ever tell me?

I stand up again, walking to the back door.
I need to speak to Sam
now
.

“I don’t want you to see him anymore.”

Her words freeze me. I turn back, putting as
much ice into my eyes and my words as I’m capable of.

“My mom might have known you were alive, but
there had to be a reason she kept it hidden from me. She obviously
didn’t ever intend for you to be a part of my life. If you weren’t
my only choice, I wouldn’t abide having you here now. But be very
clear on this,
grandmother
, I have no ties to you, no
obligation to you, and on the day I turn eighteen, you will walk
away from me as you once did her, and I will never think of you
again. There will be no notes, in trees or otherwise. In the
meantime, I’ve lived my life so far just fine without you, and will
continue to do so. You have zero right to tell me who I can hang
out with,” my voice is rising, but I don’t care if the whole world
hears. “I will decide who is in my life and who is not. Sam is
definitely
in, and you… you will soon be definitely
out.”