My Soul Immortal (15 page)

“Can you leave now?” I’m able to force out.

Leah doesn’t say a word, only shakes her head.

“When?”

“You don’t have to come back. I know this all sounds crazy. I’ve heard it all before.” Her voice is steely.

Does she think I’m showing her pity?

She turns and starts to walk away from me.
No!
My inner voice growls, and I manage to overpower the flashback, at least for the moment. Reaching out in desperation, I grab her shoulders and twirl her back toward me.

“Listen. I’m not leaving you. I need fresh air to clear my head. That’s all. Then we can figure this out together. Okay?”

She nods. The tears well and start to trickle down her cheeks.

I wipe the droplets away with my fingers then lean in to kiss her, but she looks down, and my lips meet her forehead.

“When?” I ask.

“Nine.”

“I’ll be back then. Will you wait for me?”

“Yes, I’ll wait.”

With her reassurance, I rush from the storage room into the gallery. My eyes dart to the paintings around me. The artwork had faded into the background during my search for Leah. Snapshots of the past look back—my life with Lydia. In her vibrant palette, Leah has captured simple scenes. An afternoon under the elms. A silhouetted couple secluded in the shadows. A room filled with dancing couples in swirling colors of lavender, ruby, and royal blue. An aerial view of a man in the rain, looking skyward. And although his features are hidden by shadow, Leah captured my anguish perfectly.

My nerves stretch to their breaking point, threatening to shatter. The trembling travels from my hands to my arms. I need to get out of here. I shove my way toward the door, through the droning crowd. In my rush, I bump several of the guests. Irritated exclamations follow me. Apologizing, I keep moving for the exit and the solitude of the night.

Outside, the sea of blackness squeezes in around me. Dazed, I draw in air, filling my lungs in sharp breaths. I thought I had it all figured out. I didn’t. The paintings are indisputable proof of that. And her words:
I dreamt of him since I was thirteen. Dreamt of you
. How is that possible? With shaky fingers, I rub my temples and begin to walk, fighting against each impending flashback. Strangely enough, the flashback retreats until nothing is left but a residue of a headache. I’ve never been able to control them before. The past has always reigned over me.

At the water’s edge, I stop. My mind strives to find one logical scenario. I dive down one rabbit hole after another, but each serpentine path leads to the same conclusion, which I can’t allow myself to believe. Life doesn’t work that way, at least not
my
life. Happy endings are made for fairy tales and legends, not reality. My feet begin to move again, aimlessly.

As I resurface from the tangled thoughts, I find myself on a deserted street. A lone well-lit building stands amid the vacant lots lining both sides of the street. The fiery-red painted bricks stand out in contrast to the sparse, dark surroundings. A light over the old rustic door illuminates the gold lettering. Brian Ború Public House. The fresh air isn’t helping. Maybe a beer will.

The pub is packed with regulars exchanging friendly banter. The ceiling is lined with aged wooden crossbeams, and the walls are the original brick and fieldstone. The pub feels as though it were transplanted from the motherland piece by piece.

I slip onto the stool. The bartender, whose tawny hair is formed into short spikes, comes by to place a small square napkin in front of me.

“Prize Old Ale,” I say.

“ID?” His voice is smothered with a thick Irish brogue.

I grumble and dig my license out of my wallet then toss it on the counter.

The bartender studies it skeptically, shrugs, and hands it back. “Sorry. Just doing my job. We don’t carry Prize. Can I get you something else?”

“Guinness.” I heave a heavy sigh.

The sapphire-eyed devil’s voice whispers in my ear, “Now that’s funny. What are you? One hundred and seventy? And you’re still getting carded. That’s got to suck.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Cold flicks the scruff of my neck. I wheel around. The sapphire-eyed devil stands in front of me, looking at me down a long, straight nose. The suggestion of a smirk on his thin lips argues that he’s amused.

“What the…?”

“Beer first, questions later. Life’s uncertain.” He gestures to the bartender and takes the stool next to mine. “Scotch. Oldest you got.”

I glower at him. “I remember you. France. 1914.”

“You owe me one Ben Franklin.” He smiles but doesn’t meet my glare.

“I want you to stay away from that girl. Stay away from Leah.”

“And what if I don’t? You’ll do what? Kill me?” His eyes glide to mine, and the rich tone of his laughter sings over the chatter.

“Just like you killed them, if I could.”

He studies me from under hooded brows. “Who?”

“The couple at the bar.”

“I didn’t touch them,” he answers, curling his upper lip and spitting each word through clenched teeth.

“You were watching them, left when they did, and you were seen with them right before they died.”

“So? She looked familiar. You know how that is. Leah Winters—she’s familiar to you, right?” Sarcasm soaks his defensive tone.

My jaw tightens. “I said stay away from her,” I hiss.

“Sure, sure. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He pauses. “I’m Artagan.”

I snort. “Artagan? What, like the guy from the tale of Olluna?”

“Oh, you’ve heard it? Yes, one of my more dramatic moments.” He smirks.

“You’re suggesting you’re the son of Death?” I eye him incredulously. He doesn’t seem like the heartbroken sort.

“An honorary title, but yes.” An amused smile extends across his face and serves only to anger me more.

“All right, enough with the bull—”

“Shhh. We have time. Lots of it, in fact.” He chuckles, reaching for his scotch, but he halts, his hands still hanging in the air. A sleek brunette ambles to the bar. Dressed in a vivid red, the woman rests against the counter next to me and orders a drink. She cocks her head to the side and smiles. Then she laughs at the bartender’s stupid joke.

Artagan leans around me, his eyes tracing every one of her curves before returning to her face. “You look stunning in crimson.”

His lack of respect is unnerving. I realize I’ll be lucky if I get a shred of information out of him, and my chest tightens. I’ve been scrounging for answers, and fate sent me this rude ass. I would laugh if I didn’t find everything about him so unbelievably frustrating.

“May I buy you a drink?” Artagan adds, still ogling the woman, but he isn’t looking at her eyes.

The bartender glares. “This one’s on the house,” he says, sliding a pink froufrou drink in front of her.

Artagan laughs. “Pink Lady. Interesting choice. I see you as more of a Dead Sexy or scotch fan.” He raises his glass and grins wickedly.

First, the woman scowls, but then her fire-engine red lips form a grin, and she gives Artagan a flirty little wink. She scribbles her number on a napkin and tucks the paper into the breast pocket of his blazer.

As she slinks to her table, Artagan leans away from the counter. His stool balanced on two legs while he enjoys the view.
Nope, no heartbreak there.
He’s still grinning when he brings his amber drink to his lips and is about to sip.

“Artagan, huh? The same son of a bitch who destroyed a whole village, including every child.” My timing is perfect and gets the reaction I was aiming for.

Artagan slams his glass onto the counter, and the ice cubes clink against the sides. His eyes snap to me, then he shoots me a long, hard stare. White-hot fire seethes under the surface. “They all deserved it.” He snarls. His resonant voice shows no sign of pity or remorse. “I thought you, above anyone else, would understand. What would you have done if it’d been your Lydia?”

My hand clenches involuntarily.
If influenza had been a village of people, what wouldn’t I have done to avenge Lydia’s death?
I inhale slowly, focusing. I can’t let him distract me, not when I’m so close to getting answers. “Lydia died a long time ago, but if you’re who you say you are, you know that.”

“True. In part,” he says.

I stare at him, unblinking. “Part?”

He smiles and gestures to an empty booth in the back corner. “May I suggest we move over there? It will allow us to talk more freely, away from prying ears.”

I nod and stand, grabbing my bottle.

Once we’re settled, I ask, “What do you mean ‘in part’?”

“Patience. You’ve waited over one hundred years. A minute isn’t going to kill you.”

“How do you know my age?”

Artagan puts a finger to his lips. Then he takes three long sips of his single-malt scotch, savoring each swallow.

My grip on my beer tightens with each second of silence. I’m wondering if the bottle or my self-restraint will break first.

“Ahhh, Macallan. The good stuff,” he says. “Let’s start at the beginning. I assume you know you’re immortal.”

“Yeah.”

“Any theories why?”

“I don’t have a soul?” I throw out my latest hypothesis with a shrug.

He bursts into laughter. “No, no, no, you’re nothing like them.”

“Then what? Am I a son of Death, too?” I ask, not amused.

“You might not be Death’s son, but you’re a relation. All immortals are. We don’t die because Death doesn’t claim his own. Welcome to the family, as dysfunctional as it is.” He raises his glass as if to toast.

“A relative of Death?” My words trip over the clutter in my mind. The whole time I’ve been chasing
him
, hating
him
, and Death’s part of me. “No!”

“Yes. The hereditary mutation shows up randomly through Death’s family line. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later. The genetic change is infrequent, but when it occurs, the results are either immortal or soul immortal. Immortals are rare. Both the mother and father have to carry the gene. Soul immortals only have to inherit their abnormality from one parent, usually the mother, but not always. Even then, there’s no rhyme or reason, none I can find, anyway. It’s a crap shoot, just like life.”

“Soul immortals?”

“Haven’t you ever wondered why Leah is so much like Lydia? I don’t mean physically. That’s a fluke. Although, I’ve seen her, and the resemblance is uncanny.”

“I know. I saw you talking to her at the movies.” The habitual icy thrill of anger creeps into place, and I ball my hands into fists. I have to hold myself together; I’m too close to the truth.

A suggestion of pride teases his lips and eyes. “Did you?”

I glare at him.

Artagan puts up his hand. “Calm yourself. No harm, no foul. Soul immortals are different from us. For one thing, there are lots more of them. Moreover, our bodies are bound to earth, but their souls are bound to earth. That means they’ll have a physical death, but at some point, their souls will return in a new body. Never the wiser. Lucky bastards. There will, of course, be differences from body to body, because of the new life experiences and all. But at the core, the essence of who they were will be the same.”

“You’re suggesting Leah and Lydia share the same soul?”

“Do you have a hearing impediment? I hate repeating myself.” He swallows the last of his scotch and then studies me before shaking his head. “You don’t believe you deserve any happiness, do you? Not deep down.”

“Where’d that come from?” I grumble. “Besides, you don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You worry about one life when I’ve killed a whole village.”

I frown, questioning him silently.

“You’re talking about Hake, right?”

“How do you know about him?”

Artagan rolls his eyes in annoyance and then points at his chest. “Son of Death, remember? Hake was a worthless street hood. Between the fighters he had killed and the prostitutes he beat beyond recognition, he had it coming. He died the way he chose to live. Brutally.”

“There were more than Hake.”

“More?” It’s Artagan’s turn to be confused.

I hold up three fingers.

“No. I’d know if that was truth.”

“Hake. My father. Lydia.” I fold each finger down as I say their names.

“You didn’t kill your father or Lydia. You couldn’t have saved them no matter what you did. It was their time.”

“My actions caused their deaths.”

“Yeah, asking the girl you love to marry you. What an arsehole you are.”

I glare at him, but my mouth stays shut.

Artagan snorts. “And your father?”

“He was on an errand for me.”

“So what? You were seven. You’re gripping the past so tight you can’t live. Or see how foolish you’re being.”

Death—or at the very least, his son—is giving
me
advice on living. I snort. “Thanks, Dr. Phil.”

“Seems you’re throwing yourself a pity party. The bombing in Cairo last week and the train wreck in California two days from now, they’re your fault, too. Those two incidences alone will take a total of 243 lives.” He mutters something under his breath. “Done?”

I glower at him. “Are you serious? I can’t tell if you’re lying or just crazy.”

“Very serious. I am what I am, and I do what I have to.”

“How can you just accept killing like you have no choice?”

He stares at me as if he has more to say, but instead of speaking, he takes a long sip of his scotch. “Do you want to talk about my crimes, or do you want to know about Leah?”

I sigh, keeping the rest of my thoughts to myself.

“Thought so. As I was saying, Leah’s physical resemblance to Lydia is a twist of fate. Only the soul passes down the family line to the next descendent, a kind of inheritance. All except the eyes. They’re called the windows to the soul for a reason. They’ll always be the same.”

I had dismissed the similarities as wishful thinking or family traits. Blocks away from here is a room filled with scenes of Lydia’s past hanging on the walls. Those eyes aren’t a likeness. They’re the originals. “How do you know this?”

“The horse’s mouth. After six hundred years, Death and I have had some heated discussions.” He chuckles. “Leah’s soul immortal, so she’s kept the essence of who she once was, even though she doesn’t remember her past life.”