Mercy (25 page)

“Michael?” she asked. He didn’t wake, holding his hands in front of his face, shielding himself from a blow. She leaned forward and set the book face down on the coffee table where she’d stopped reading. She ran her fingers along her lips as he jolted and murmured something she couldn’t make out. She moved to his side, worried about touching him in case he smacked her in the face or something. His arm fell to his side, his other across his torso and she pressed two fingers into his shoulder, jabbing him.

“Michael,” she hissed louder, desperately wanting to pull him out his nightmare. He flinched and she jumped, staring at his closed eyelids, black lashes contrasting against pale cheeks. His arms went up to block himself again. She stepped back, her shins hitting the coffee table and rattling the mug.

She groaned, unsure what else to do to make him wake up. She reached over and pinched his arm but that didn’t work either. His arm shot towards her and she grabbed his wrist squeezing hard until he wrenched it out of her grip, mumbling something incomprehensible under his breath. She put her hands on her hips and scowled.

“Do you have to be so fucking difficult all the time?” She pulled her shirt over her belt and eyed the couch. His fist rammed into her thigh and she doubled over, practically falling on top of him, catching herself on the back of the couch. She swiveled but couldn’t push herself up, her legs locked under her. She cautiously set her knee on the edge of the couch, her hands trapped. Eventually she gave up trying to be gingerly and sat on him, hoping maybe that would wake him up. It didn’t. He had one arm above his head, the other hanging off the couch. He seemed to be muttering an incantation, some long string of syllables she didn’t understand. Her heart dove into her throat, wondering if that’s why he needed the occult shop, if the ritual he was planning involved some kind of funky chanting. A chill ran through her. She straightened her spine, raising a flat hand. He seemed lost in his incantation, and she brought her hand down, intending to smack him hard across the face.

In a swift move he grabbed her wrist, his fingers crunching bone. She let out a cry, pain shooting up her arm, eyes widening at the shock of pain. His eyes were full of terror as he launched himself off the pillow, his face looming inches from hers. She didn’t know where to put her other arm so it remained pinned to her side. He let go of her wrist and grabbed her by the upper arms, fingers digging in, eyes searching her face.

She was so lost for words, heart thudding, fingers trembling. She breathed hard, her knees sinking into the couch, hands reaching for his shirt, trying to keep him at bay. She didn’t want him to hurt her—couldn’t let him hurt her, but the way he looked at her, anger and disbelief circling his perfect blue eyes made her flush with heat.

His hands fell off her arms and found her face, fingers trailing down her cheeks, her skin burning where he touched.

“I can’t do it,” he whispered. She pressed her hands to his chest, guilt lancing through her. His eyes found hers and she couldn’t speak for all the unexplainable emotions washing through her. He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice barely audible.

“I can’t kill you.”

Everything shattered. His lips were on hers, his hands threaded into her hair, slipped down her neck, splayed along the small of her back, forcing her closer, pressing her against him. Bright amethyst starbursts dotted her vision as she laced her arm under his, her fingers tracing his shoulder blades. His heart rammed against hers like cannon fire. She was falling and drowning at the same time, wanting to melt into him, her body pliant, fluid. Warmth coursed through her as a moan escaped her throat, tears wetting her cheeks. All this time she was dead inside, and he opened her up and carved out her insides, showing her everything that made her inhuman. Everything she’d ever known burst into a thousand tiny fragments. All she understood was the feeling of his hands on her, his lips on her lips, his chest against her chest.

He stopped, hands on either side of her head, pressing in. She stared into his eyes, completely out of breath. He matched her uneven gasps and her heart cinched, a wave of emotions burying her in the feel of him, the smell of him, in everything he was.

She said the first thing that came to mind.

“All I want—”

He pressed his fingers to her lips, his eyes wide.

“Don’t say it.”

She wrapped her arm around his waist, wondering why he had tears in his eyes, why he’d taken so long, why he was so mean and unforgiving. She was rocketed back to the present, realizing where they were.

“Say what?” she asked as he hugged her, his chin digging into her shoulder blade, his arms trapping her in a cocoon.

“This and nothing else, ever,” he murmured in her ear.

She didn’t understand. “That’s exactly …” The words died in her throat, tears falling on his shoulder.

“I know,” he said, running the tips of his fingers along her back. She didn’t know how to feel, like everything was broken and perfect at the same time. Guilt gnawed at her, fear ripping her heart to shreds. She needed him more than she needed anyone. Pain eclipsed her, mushrooming across her temples as she held onto him, feeling like she would die if she ever lost him.

“Don’t make this harder,” he whispered, his lips against her neck.

She knotted his shirt in her fists, wanting to drown in him as long as possible. She couldn’t take it back, and she couldn’t stop the well of emotions crumbling within her. Whatever he thought, whatever he wanted, he couldn’t hide from her anymore.

“Too late,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his collarbone.

O O O

Krishani was undone. He couldn’t resist and he couldn’t hold back and he couldn’t do it. Even if he found a way, he couldn’t take away the only life she’d known in nine thousand years. He pulled the straps of her tank top and bra over her shoulder, kissing soft skin, savoring every illicit intake of breath, every stifled moan. She shifted against him, igniting something he couldn’t control. He gulped, hoping she didn’t notice, but she pressed her pelvis deeper into him and he groaned, losing himself in her. He pulled her shirt up, running his hands along her skin, wanting to take her down the hall and make love to her.

He forgot how sweet she tasted, how good she smelled, the mixed hints of violet flowers, hibiscus scented soap, and fabric softener making him lightheaded. Nine thousand years, he hadn’t seen her since the day the Vultures came for him, blotting out the horizon. Thick black vines had spider-webbed across his body and it had changed everything. He remembered her strangled cry, her desperate confession, her crushing need to fix everything she broke.

He clutched the girl in his arms tighter, unwilling to believe this was real. She was alive, and she was kissing him back, running her hands along his shoulders, tangling them in his hair, stroking bare skin. He pressed his lips to her shoulder and she whispered something in his ear, a name that wasn’t his.

He kissed her neck, making a trail to her jaw. Her breath flushed into his ear as she let out a whimper. He tasted tears on his lips, but he couldn’t stop. He brushed feather light kisses on her cheek, on her eyelids. He was perpetually trapped under her weight, her legs straddling him, chest pressed against his. She stretched back and said the name again. He leaned into her, lips finding her collarbone, the edge of her scoop neck tank top. His lips trailed along the tips of her breasts, until hands found his chest and shoved him back.

He stared at her liquid amethyst eyes, forgetting everything but the past they shared. She was the only thing that mattered to him. He spent thousands of years, fighting, struggling, scouring, waiting. He waited almost ten thousand years and she didn’t recognize him. Her eyes registered a kind of shock and unknowing. With halting brisance he remembered everything since he found her, disappointment crushing him as he realized she didn’t remember the way he did. Her lips were flushed, cheeks puffy, eyes bloodshot. The amethyst faded, replaced by shades of caramel, olive, and brown.

“Michael?” Her voice sounded small.

He frowned, and moved his legs, sliding them under her. She shifted and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He looked at the coffee table, reality crashing on him. It felt like everything was sucked into a black hole and catapulted out the other side. He didn’t know what to say. Memories attacked him, making red flares of pain shoot through his temples. For a moment, there was absolutely no pain, but now it drowned him, crunching aches stiffening his limbs. He felt her radiating next to him, and wanted nothing more than to pour himself into her, anchoring himself to her heart so he’d never get lost again.

She cleared her throat. “Uh … you were having a nightmare …” she said, as if trying to explain why she was on top of him in the first place. She slid her bra strap onto her shoulder and pulled her shirt down, stretching her arms out. There were a million things he could have said but none of them sounded right. She sighed. “I don’t know what a Wraith is.”

His eyes widened but he didn’t look at her, mortification sliding through his bones, nausea churning his stomach. Aches ran the lengths of his arms, his heart clenched. “You looked?”

“Yeah. I found a reference to Scotland and ghosts.” She seemed perturbed, and something else, scared, hesitant.

“I’m not a ghost.”

“Obviously not.”

Krishani let silence fall between them, decompressing the kiss, why she let him touch her, kiss her, without screaming. He expected her to freak out but she sat there staring at the flat screen, her features perfectly composed. He wanted to twine his fingers through hers but her hands were clasped so tightly together and her shoulders were hunched so high he didn’t try. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “They’re sort of … darkness.”

She shot him a scowl, her eyes tracing his face thoughtfully. “Like demons?”

He didn’t want to tell her like this, because once she knew, all the hatred would come springing back and she’d throw up her walls, shutting him out forever.

“Aye,” he whispered.

Her expression was unreadable. He was defeated and sick of fighting. He wanted to envelope her in his arms and make her believe she was safe. He wanted to tell her she was just a girl and she could do whatever she wanted with her life, but none of it was true. She would always be a Flame, and she would always be hunted. “I don’t believe that,” she said, looking at the windows.

Krishani shifted, unsure if she was going to deny everything, reject what she saw and go back to saying she imagined it all. He tensed. She could have him committed, arrested, exiled. He coughed, the sensation rattling his lungs as he attempted to hold himself together. She hurt him once; there was no telling if she’d do it again.

“Why?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

He expected her to recoil, scream, storm off, but her fingers ran along his forearm, goose bumps prickling along his skin, the delicacy of her touch enough to make him break. He drew a sharp breath, stifling the urge to touch her.

“It’s not who you are.”

Krishani straightened. “What?”

She swiveled, putting her legs over his lap and leaning in, her head on his shoulder, her fingers on the back of his neck. “You put up this big wall to hide the fact that you’re sick.”

He didn’t know how to feel. He narrowed his eyes to slits and looked at her, waiting for her to say he needed doctors, psychiatric help, more drugs, and a strait jacket. “You’re still in danger, don’t think that just because—that I won’t.” He tried to sound lethal because if he had to, he would. She didn’t know what wanted her, she didn’t even know how impossibly rare she was. She stared at him, her eyes wavering with hints of indecision. Her eyes flicked to his lips and he ached to kiss her again.

“You’re dying.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s true.”

He wound his arm around her and pressed his fingers into her side, lowering his forehead to her shoulder. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t let her watch him die. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What do you want to do?”

Krishani pressed his lips to her neck, reveling in the quickening of her pulse. She sighed and he pulled away, reminding himself she didn’t know who she was. He dropped his hand from her side and pressed his back into the cushions. “I’m sorry,” he said, not wanting to scare her away.

She looked at her lap, hanging her head. “It was never a stomach virus was it?”

All at once he realized his mistake, letting out a long breath. “No …”

“How long?”

Krishani stared at her, the question lancing through his heart, taking him over the edge. Nine thousand years and all he ever wanted to know was how long. How much longer until he found her, how much longer until he died? How long, how long, how long? He couldn’t move, her legs pinning him to the couch. He tilted his head back, hoping she couldn’t see the desperation on his face. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“How long?” She seemed alarmed.

He cupped her face with his hands, wanting to shove the words back into her mouth. He needed her to stop talking, but she forced his hands away and stood, meeting his eyes. He couldn’t lie to her and he couldn’t stop himself from being what he was because it was her fault. In a single moment she damned him to a fate worse than death, a fate worse than being the Ferryman. And he had all eternity to live out his disgusting existence.

“Three months … six if they do chemo again.”

“Again?” She slumped on the couch, seeming defeated. He twined his hand with hers, trying to be as gentle as possible.

“I was in remission for a long time.”

She let out a shaky breath and he knew she was crying but he didn’t know how to stop it. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You don’t have to,” he said automatically. She could go back to her life, forget he existed and he could go back to pining for her, living in the hell she created for him.

She looked at him, tears slipping down her cheek. He absentmindedly brushed one away with his thumb. She gripped his hand with both of hers and dragged it away from her face, running her hands along his forearm, his shoulders, neck. He didn’t know what she was doing, his heart hammering as she drank him in, her eyes alight with fire. “I’ve never—I mean—I’m not good at this.”