Ride the Moon: An Anthology (24 page)

Fear leaps in his stomach but he catches it, moulds it, hones it until it's as sharp as the blade and is just another weapon at his disposal. He tilts the goblet until the liquid meets his lips, presses the blade into his skin until he feels the sting of blood. This is it, the moment when he will end his life and begin it, the moment when he will grasp his immortality. On the silent count of three, he draws the knife across his throat and swallows down the potion.

Hot fire grips him, and whether from the wound or liquid, he can't tell, and it doesn't matter, because the pain sears down into his belly and he can't breathe, can't scream, and his heart stutters. He's dying. His muscles cramp, arching his spine until he knows his bones must shatter from the strain, and it burns, flames under his skin that light him up like a candle.

The fear bursts from his grip and floods through him on a tide of adrenalin. Everything's done, everything's over, and it was all for nothing, and the only thing he can think of is Lena's eyes and a spray of cherry blossom in the moonlight. In despair that overwhelms even the pain, he passes out.

When he wakes, the fire has died down, and only the embers of pain are left. They flare in his joints and limbs when he stirs, and at first he is too groggy to realise what they mean. Ambrose strains open his eyes and stares vaguely at a stone goblet lying on its side, rim chipped, the sticky residue of black, tar-like liquid pooling underneath it.

The memories come flooding back and he wonders how long it's been. Will Morris have missed him yet and realise what it means? He struggles to his feet, biting back moans as his muscles catch and clench—but then he grins. He's standing. He died, and now he's standing, and he feels... Ambrose stretches and twists, staring at his body, wondering exactly what it is he feels. He's happy that it worked, of course; he's achieved the ambition of several lifetimes, and beaten all the others who raced against him. But it's a quiet sort of happiness, reserved, not at all the elation he'd expected. And underneath it all, he realises, there's still the stink of fear. What if they don't believe him?

Suddenly frantic, Ambrose strides to the corner of the room and his bundle of clothes. He dresses, not worrying over minor things like buttons, and hurries from the room. Downstairs, out in front, his car is waiting and in it is his phone, left there so he wouldn't be disturbed. He punches in the speed dial for the office and fidgets as it rings. Morris will know; his elder brother always understands.

The secretary—Sarah? Sara?—answers the phone and Ambrose snaps for Morris. An awkward silence fills the end of the line. His stomach sinks. “What? What is it?” he demands.

“He's dead, Ambrose,” the secretary says. “They found him in his flat three days ago. Suicide. We... He had no idea where you'd gone, Ambrose. He thought you'd left us.”

Ambrose leans back against the seat as the world reels around him. “Three days? How long have I been gone?”

“A week.”

Numb, Ambrose hangs up. He's achieved immortality, only it doesn't matter, because he was going to share it with Morris. Not that he'd ever told Morris that, not in so many words, but the promise was there, implied. And now it's too late.

It's a month later, and still the mobs haven't died away. They never use the doorbell, just lie in wait around the front steps of the old, unloved house that's now his refuge, waiting for him to appear. When he does, it's all flashing lights and questions, microphones in his face. He's tried his best to ignore them, but they're persistent, and they want to know his secrets. It's enough to make him wish he'd never publicised his findings, never made it known that he'd finally won the race.

Even at night they wolf around the steps, and it's hard for him to spot them because the moon has disappeared. To be sure, the moon has always been sporadic. Despite rumours that centuries ago the moon was constant in its cycle, in all of living history it's been inconstant, full one night and new the next. But never has it been gone so long.

Morris is gone, the moon is gone, and even Lena, the lovesick moony-eyed girl that used to follow him everywhere, is gone, and he feels utterly alone. Outside, the mobs catch sight of his shadow through the frosted panes of the door and begin their restless murmurs. He needs food, needs to walk—but he can't face the mob again, not alone. He leans his forehead on the ice-cold glass in the door. He's got everything he ever wanted, but no one told him the emptiness would feel like this. Even though he can remember the taste of Lena's lips that night under the last full moon, even though he can remember losing his focus for a split second in the pleasure of holding another warm body, of her skin pressing against his in the moonlight—it's not enough.

She'd tried, of course. All she wanted was to be with him, to love him. But immortality was a harsh master and he couldn't afford to become entangled, to be distracted from his research. All he'd wanted was some fun on the side.

Only now she's gone, and he's standing here, barricaded in his own house by mobs of reporters and spies and conspirators, and he can't leave, can't go outside, and all he can see is the pain and confusion in her eyes as he'd turned and stridden away. He'd never meant to hurt her.

The whirr of something moving quickly through the air cuts into his memories and he jerks away from the door. Where his head had rested only instants ago, the glass now sprouts a crossbow bolt that fizzes and sizzles. Ambrose laughs, which turns into a sob. He's immortal, don't they understand? But it's obvious that they won't stop trying. He reaches out and bolts the deadlock. He'll order in groceries, find some way around it. Either way, he won't set foot outside again.

It's an ordinary night when Ambrose pelts down the hallway to answer the bell, sprinting so he doesn't have a chance to change his mind. For the last month without fail, someone has left cherry blossoms on his doorstep, and he knows it's Lena. She told him once—or maybe twice—that cherry blossoms were her favourite, that they reminded her of everything good in life and how fragile and ephemeral it all was. And no one else ever rings the bell.

The reporters left not long after he swore himself to hermitism, and the snoops and gold-diggers followed a few months later. The assassins took the longest to give up, but it's been at least a year now since the last attempt, so he feels confident flinging the door wide open and peering left and right, hoping for any glimpse of Lena. As always, he's greeted by an empty street—only tonight is not so ordinary after all. It takes a moment for him to realise what's wrong, what's different, and when he does, he falls back a step, eyes wide: the moon is shining.

He'd always had the sneaking suspicion that it was because he'd died that the moon had gone, but here, hanging above the darkly-silhouetted trees, is proof that he was wrong. A quiet sort of relief fills him; it wasn't his fault after all.

Feeling as close to cheerful as it's possible to get when you gave up on feelings a decade ago, Ambrose leans down to retrieve the spray of blossom, and a thrill runs through him. The blossom is there, of course, pale pink petals drenched in silver light, the branch a sharp shadow beneath—but there is more. Tonight, the spray rests on a stack of letters, envelopes hand-folded from thick cream paper and addressed in fluid, loopy writing that's Lena all over. His pulse skips as he snatches them up and carries them inside.

Why letters? he thinks. Why now? For a month she'd come to visit every night, and for a month he'd been too anxious to answer the door until she'd gone. Is she giving up? He doesn't know how he feels about that, and he stares at the bundle apprehensively. On the one hand, he never professed to love her; never bought her roses, never sent her chocolates, never wrote her cards on Valentine's Day or birthdays. She'd been a bit of fun, a bluebell in the middle of an icy winter, and nothing more.

But on the other hand, she'd been sweet, and innocent, and every bloody thing he'd let go for immortality. And she'd followed him past death, the only person from his former life to make an effort, to pound against the wall he'd built around himself.

Ambrose sits down in the armchair and pulls at the silky pink ribbon that holds the bundle together. It comes away, spilling cherry petals in his lap. He lifts what remains of the spray, feeling somehow responsible for the flowers' death.

Which is stupid, of course. Lena is the one who picked them, who killed them, and if she intended for him to keep them she should have brought something more robust, like chrysanthemums or lilies or sunflowers. She always was impractical.

He sets the branch aside, conscience prickling as he tries to avoid comparing Lena to a cherry flower, wondering if something might make her wither, and if it might be him. Morris had always said that it was selfish to lead her on, to dance when he never meant to stay.

Ambrose cracks the seal on the first letter and unfolds it. He stares at it for a moment before realising that it details their first encounter, and a phrase catches his eye:

Why the Fates have chosen you as my target, I cannot untangle. But if you need me, I will persist as long as they require it.

He frowns. She had targeted him? Or, more precisely, someone had targeted her
at
him. Who? One of his competitors, trying to distract him? Ambrose grits his teeth then forces out a laugh. It doesn't matter; he won in the end.

Restless, he flicks absently through the rest of the letters, and only towards the end does he realise that they all begin the same way. “Today, Ambrose stood me up, and there was no moon in the sky”, or, “Tonight we walked through the park for hours, talking about our dreams, and the full moon was bright”; always a brief summary of what had happened and a description of the moon, right up until that very last full moon, the night he kissed her. Strange.

He scans back over the letters, noting how their best dates always coincided with a full moon, and the nights he'd left her hurt the sky had been dark. Curiosity piqued, he reaches for the last letter, unfolds it, and begins to read.

Today, there is no moon. There has been no moon for twenty-one months now and I wonder if you know why.

A shiver finds his spine, and Ambrose rubs the goosebumps from his arms. It's been twenty-one months since he died. Is the moon's disappearance his fault after all?

You're a shadow, but because you were human once, it's enough; life clings to you like oil to water.

I cannot die—but I cannot cling to half-life either. So tonight, there'll be a moon again
.

You were human, she says. What is she, then? Absently, he brushes his fingers against his lips, feeling the ghost of hers, and he remembers the light flooding his front step just now. “There will be a moon again,” he murmurs, and his heart contracts. Who is she, that she can predict the moon?

Then again, so what? He brushes his nerves aside. She'd no doubt penned the letter right before she came, probably by the light of the very moon she claimed to predict—hardly some feat of prophecy. No. It's nothing to worry about, and he is the only immortal, he knows that without a doubt. She's trying to mess with his head, nothing more, and he won't let her.

I don't need you. I never needed you, and certainly not in the way you needed me. But I did love you
.

What does she mean, she didn't need him? She shadowed him everywhere, hung on his every word! He was everything to her. He'd
meant
something to her. The paper crumples in his hand as he presses his fist against the chair, anger clogging his throat. And to say that
he
needed
her
? He'd never needed anyone less. She'd nearly ruined everything.

I'm going home, now. You wouldn't be dissuaded from your goals, and the Fates have decided my job is done. I disagree; I think you'll see the point in time. After all, you have time illimited now, and I think you know that what you sacrificed will always haunt your dreams.

And there it is: she's giving up after all. Good, he thinks, vindictive. Then he reads the paragraph again and is kissed with disappointment. She hadn't loved him after all, despite what she may say. Someone had hired her to draw him away from the quest for immortality. He swallows down the sourness. This is a good thing. It means he didn't hurt her, isn't responsible, because she never truly wanted anything more.

As for the last, well, he has no dreams now. He hasn't dreamed of love or guilt, kindness or anything other than sheer and bloody-minded determination in years. At least, that's what he tells himself in the early hours of the morning when he wakes, drenched in sweat. Ambrose scowls and pushes the image aside.

You won't hear from me again, the letter continues. In a few years, you'll probably forget that I ever existed. But I'll be watching you. Because I do love you. You're never alone.

All that follows is her signature, embellished with a sliver-moon. “Watching me,” he mutters, scrambling to his feet. It doesn't occur to him that she might be lying, because that's not the kind of thing she does. Instead, he paces in a circle, wondering where she might be hiding.

But halfway round it hits him: Lena doesn't lie. She's gone, she's never coming back. Tonight, the night he'd finally answered the door for her, she is gone. He clutches for the curtain and it slides aside. Moonlight floods in and alights on the table where letters and petals are strewn.

Moonlight on petals, the last thing he remembered before he died. Lena in the moonlight, bright-eyed and laughing; Lena in darkness, a figure half-glimpsed over his shoulder as he walked away. The moon was always bright when Lena was and always dim when she cried.

A hazy memory struggles into view. It's that night in the park when they confessed secrets to each other and he said things he'd never said before, and never should have then. She'd tried to tell him something, a story about a young woman who was the moon, and he'd laughed, and done like he always had, and brushed her words aside.