Mortal Danger (The Immortal Game) (37 page)

“Mom’s dead,” I said. Two words, heavy as osmium.

“Oh God, honey.” From his expression, I could tell he didn’t know what to say, what to ask, and my words were balled into a Gordian tangle.

“Are you Alan Kramer?” A man in a wrinkled suit stood outside the brownstone, wearing a grave but purposeful look.

“Yes.”

“Please come with us. We have some questions for your daughter.”

In the end, they asked Kian and me several times exactly what we saw. We recounted the story separately and together. No, we didn’t see anyone fleeing the scene. Yes, we both had class before coming home. Kian picked me up at Blackbriar; we came straight home. I resisted the temptation to give the detectives a description of the bag man. It was late by the time we finished, and our apartment was a crime scene.

“We’ll … get a hotel room,” Dad said. “We can stop at a pharmacy and buy some essentials, like pajamas and toothbrush—”

Kian cut in, “You’re welcome to stay at my place. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

He seemed older than twenty at the moment, but age was more than chronology. I didn’t have the strength to doubt him, so I clutched him close instead. I turned to my dad. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather do that.”

“Okay.” It was so strange for him to acquiesce that readily, like my mother had been the reason for the steel in his spine.

Kian drove us to his apartment from the precinct and parked a few blocks down. On the way, I stopped at a corner drugstore. They had toiletries and I found T-shirts and novelty shorts to sleep in. Silently, I dropped the few items into my dad’s basket and he paid. Nobody felt like eating, and just as well, because Kian had cup noodles and a box of tea. He made each of us a mug, and my dad seemed every bit as shell-shocked as I felt.

He didn’t lecture us about staying up too late or give me a speech about how Kian wasn’t to be trusted. Instead, he kissed my cheek and went to the guest bedroom and shut the door with a quiet, final click. Bereft, I sank down on the sofa.

“This isn’t a dream,” I said to Kian.

Sadly he shook his head.

The dam burst. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the ache for my mom blossomed in my chest. I remembered our lunch. Lobster rolls.
It feels like we should celebrate. To new beginnings.
Now, like the Teflon crew, she was gone, but—

I never wished for this. I never did. Never.

Mom, no.

I protected Vi instead of my mother; that was my choice. But all this time, I thought the man with the sack and the awful children were hunting
me.
If I’d known, I would’ve used my favor to make sure she was safe.
I’m so sorry, Mom.
I imagined them knocking on our door, after Mr. Lewis’s protective measures failed, hiding their nightmare skins under an illusion of normalcy.
Mom would’ve invited them in.
But if I’d warned her, she wouldn’t have believed me.

She never wore makeup because she didn’t feel pretty. So why try?
If I hadn’t gotten to know her better, I never would’ve learned that about her … or the curling iron story about my grandmother. My mom always had ink stains on her sweaters. She …

… died in a pool of blood. Did she suffer? Or was it quick?

She never taught me about electrical wiring. I never showed her how to do her face with the autumn mineral makeup we bought together.
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—
Kian wrapped his arms around me, but he didn’t try to staunch my sobs. He stroked my back, my hair, and let me weep until I couldn’t breathe.

“They’ll never know. The case will go cold, someone will file it.”

“You said…” His voice caught. “That you were ready to give me up. If there was anything I could do, if I
could
, I’d trade places with her for you.”

Hard shudders racked me from head to toe. “Idiot. No swaps, no deals. I want both of you. I don’t want this, Kian. I can’t have
this
. I just want it to be over. I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

“It can’t be undone,” he said, as if I didn’t
know
that. But maybe in our world, there were certain mutable realities, and death was more of a swinging door. “Sometimes people use favors to bring loved ones back, but … they’re never right. I’m so sorry.”

Oh.

“Is there any way to make him pay?” The words came before I could stop them, before my brain could remind me that it was my quest for revenge that had carried me here.

“Who?”

“The old man with the sack.” I realized then; I’d never
told
him. He knew about the thin man, but this monster, I had kept all for my own.

It might not do any good, but I told him everything then.
Too late, too late.
My muscles locked, as I waited for him to yell at me and tell me this was my fault. But his face paled instead. He covered my hand with his, eyes grave.

“If Dwyer sent him, there was
nothing
you could do. Telling me wouldn’t have changed anything. It kills me to admit it, but I bartered away my last coin keeping you safe.” He didn’t mean currency, of course, but the last thing any immortal would want, whatever that was. “I wish I could’ve protected your mother too, but it doesn’t work that way.”

One person, one favor, I know. Hope you didn’t sell your soul for me.
That would mean he couldn’t escape his masters, even in death.
I don’t want to be the rocks in your pockets, dragging you under. Oh, Kian, don’t let me drown you.

I might. And you’d let me.

“Don’t look like that,” he begged.

“Will you read me something?” Glancing around his apartment, I saw he
had
taken my advice. Everything he had left from his old life, he’d arranged—books on the shelves, journal nearby with a quality pen, and his two small trophies sat above the TV. Despite the heart breaking over and over inside me, it was almost enough to dry my tears.

Almost.

“Like what?”

“Another poem. Something beautiful.”

“I have one I wrote for a competition. It’s less … emotional, more about pretty imagery and theme. Maybe that one?”

“If you wrote it, I want it.” Breathing was onerous with lead on my chest. I ached as if I had fought an avalanche and lost. Somewhere, the old man with the sack had my mother’s head, and the wind spoke with Cameron’s voice.

This is madness. No. This is Boston.

Hysteria tapped against the glass wall I’d built around this fragile calm. I didn’t let it in. Kian grabbed his notebook and then settled down with me tucked against his side. With a crisp snap, he opened to a page already marked. “My mother loved this one.”

“I’m sure I will too.”

“It’s called ‘Firebird.’”

“Stop stalling and read.” I put my head on his shoulder.

He huffed out a breath. His shifting told me he was nervous. For some reason, his jitters calmed mine. It grew easier to breathe. I closed my eyes, letting his voice wash over me.

“Pointed beauty, sienna, umber, the sky in autumn rage;

Slim maids weep their hued tears,

a touch of lace, bright mantle of their undress.

Crisp, air a-bite with apples, rich with winter.

Mother’s lament for fled daughter, angry arms,

accusing heaven’s twilight; wispy kiss, mourning mist beneath our boots.

And how should I, walking this old earth, think to tread those paths?

Human, humbled by these elders turning down thin hands,

We stand and breathe, remembering that bird, fluttering

with color in these dark boughs, remembering

Its conviction of passage—it must fly or die.”

“Beautiful. I love it. It’s about the foliage turning in the fall,” I said. “And how much you wanted to be free.”

He nodded, closing the book. “Now, I know it’s an illusion. Nobody ever truly is. There are prices to be paid, obligations to meet.”

I met his gaze, sure of only one thing. “That’s not true. When the time comes, we have to be like that bird. Fly or die, Kian. Promise me.”

He kissed me instead of answering, but if I had to drag him over the cliff with me, so be it.
Whatever it takes, we’ll fly.

WHAT IS GONE BECOMES REALITY

There was no holiday those four days.

My dad dealt with the practicalities, and Kian
tried
to do Thanksgiving with lunchmeat turkey slices and instant potatoes, bought at a convenience store. Along with canned peas and white bread with butter, it was pretty much the saddest feast anyone ever tried to eat. I didn’t cry until he busted out the weirdest dessert ever—some kind of cookie layered with pudding. Then I hid in the guest room until I calmed down because it should’ve been my dad doing the cooking while my mom and I set the table.

Kian tapped lightly. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

“It’s not the food. You weren’t planning to have guests for Thanksgiving.” Or ever, from the look of his cupboards.

“I usually go to my aunt and uncle’s house.”

“Are they worried about you?”

“I told them I’d be with my girlfriend. I think my aunt was … relieved.”

I frowned, wiping at a trickle of tears. “Why?”

“I’m a reminder of the old scandal. She never liked my dad and she hated having me in the house. For my uncle’s sake, she pretended I was welcome, but…” He shrugged. “She wasn’t sorry when I graduated and moved to Boston.”

“Why did you?”

“Wedderburn called me here,” he said simply.

I tried to imagine getting my diploma and then learning the deal I’d made was now worthless, and that the bright future they’d hinted at was no longer viable, therefore I could expect to spend the next sixty years in servitude. It was like being a spy, only without the satisfaction of knowing you were risking your life for the greater good. This was blind obedience with no hope of escape or understanding.

“How was that?” I asked.

“By that point, I didn’t care. My senior year when Tanya died, I went numb. And I stayed that way until the first time I saw you.”

I ducked my head. “If you say stuff like that, I will shatter into a million pieces and you’ll have to sweep me up.”

He sank down on the bed beside me, but I was conscious of my dad in the other bedroom. If he came in, I didn’t want him to think … anything. So I stood up.

“Living room?”

“That’s fine. I can put on a DVD.”

“Do you have
Casablanca
? That way, if I cry, I can blame the movie.”

“Not a problem.”

We settled in to watch and partway through, my dad joined us. I could tell he had been weeping too, but nobody acknowledged it.

The weekend went slowly. I missed some school days for my mom’s funeral. The whole university showed up, which was nice for my dad, less so for me because of all the hugs I got from strangers. My eyes were dry that day; I had wept myself out at Kian’s place. I bought a new black dress and I hated it, but I wore it with black tights because
everything
was black. Except the sun. It had the nerve to shine, after days of rain, and I hated it too.

Davina and her mother came to the service; I was grateful, but it also reminded me that she still had a mom. The knife dug in and twisted, around and around, until it was an effort to hold my smile in place. I imagined it had been carved into my face, blood trickling from my mouth, and my cheeks ached. I hugged another stranger.

Kian held my hand through the prayers, songs, and speeches. I clenched hard when the minister started talking about the afterlife. We had never been a religious family, and my mom would laugh over his talk of being called home. I tuned everything out, until Kian tugged on my arm, telling me it was time to stand up and say good-bye. For obvious reasons, it was closed casket, pictures arrayed on top.

Like Brittany.

My dad grabbed my other hand, and they flanked me as we approached the coffin. It was high quality; my dad picked it out. I flattened my hand on top of the box that held what was left of my mother. Beside me, my dad did the same and Kian stepped back, letting us grieve. Then we took our places by the door, so the pallbearers could do their work.

Kian drove us to the cemetery. God knows what my dad and I would’ve done without him. Taking a taxi seemed disrespectful; so did public transportation. An hour later, there were more words, more prayers, and a handful of dirt raining down.
She’s really gone.
Someone put a flower in my hand and I pitched it into the grave. I stumbled on the green carpet, meant to look like grass so the gaping hole didn’t hit so hard.

People said, “It was a lovely service,” as they filed past.

I nodded but I didn’t
see
them. They all wore the bag man’s face. Dad and I stayed until everyone had gone. Mom’s headstone was in place, but nothing was carved on it. That seemed so very wrong.

“We should go,” Dad said finally. “We can come back after the engraving’s done. Leave some flowers for her.”

“She hated cut flowers,” I muttered.

It was true. I remembered her saying it was cruel to snip and put them in vases, laying waste to their beauty.
Better to let them bloom and die, as they’re supposed to.
Did that mean my mom believed in fate? I wished I had told her about the bargain, about my place in the timeline, but I had been ashamed of my weakness, boiling with guilt. Now it was too late. Repeatedly, I reminded myself that she was a scientist, and if I’d spilled everything, she wouldn’t have been on guard; she would’ve put me in a mental ward, so I’d be locked up and she’d still be gone.

“What verse did you choose?” Kian asked.

My dad turned to him, probably grateful for the distraction, as we walked toward the car. “‘Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children.’”

My throat closed. I recognized the quote at once; I had been reading about Einstein obsessively since I was a little girl. The tears spilled over as Kian wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I squeezed my eyes shut until the urge to sob passed.