The Given (39 page)

And Grif wouldn't want her to stay that way.

“Live until you die, right?” she said to her reflection. Again, there was no reply and she hurried to her closet to dress. Afraid, Kit realized, to answer the question herself.

When she showed up an hour and a half later at the nightclub, she was given a welcome most often reserved for a soldier returned home from war, which almost felt true. Enveloped in the arms and chatter of her closest friends and the jumping three-chord change of classic rockabilly, she was happy to simply listen as Fleur prattled on about a new competing hair salon offering a blow-dry bar and a makeup menu. As Charis proudly told of her baby, now sitting up, soon walking. Still, it all felt like an out-of-body experience, like she'd been dropped into a fishbowl, told to sink or swim.

She was just sipping at her old-fashioned, thinking she had nothing to add to the environment and that she might as well leave, when she felt a presence at her side. Looking up, she smiled. “Dennis.”

He had dodged fate one more time. The blow that Justin had landed on his head had merely gained him a concussion and a healthy interest in watching his back. For now, though, he was looking at Kit with a gentle smile on his face, one that didn't even require she smile back. Just like a true friend. “Please tell me that you've come to dance.”

Aware that all chatter at the table had ceased, and that she was currently being studied by a half-dozen curious gazes, Kit set down her tumbler and held out her hand. “This
is
one of my favorite songs.”

She ignored the lift of Fleur's painted-on eyebrows, and let herself be led to the center of the dance floor. The band had switched it up a bit, and were giving the crowd a breather with the Eddie Cochran ballad “Yesterday's Heartbreak.”

“I'm glad to see you here,” Dennis said, palming her right hand with his left.

Kit bit her lower lip. “I wouldn't have come but . . . I had a little nudge.”

“Brave,” he said, drawing her closer, breath moving her hair. “If there's anything I can do . . .”

She smiled up at him. “You're doing it.”

Dennis smiled back and, keeping his touch light, uncomplicated, and chaste, he rocked her through the notes of the song. Kit closed her eyes, happy to be led. Her eyes opened, though, when Dennis unexpectedly jolted.

“May I?” a voice said from behind him.

A man stood there, tall and thin and dark, dressed in a cuffed suit with a pocket square, and an era-appropriate skinny tie. He looked like a detective from some fifties television show, and Dennis's eyes pinched at the corners as he stared at him, mouth firmed and ready to say no, but then Kit nodded. “It's okay. I know him.”

“As long as you're still dancing,” he finally whispered, then bussed her cheek, “I'm happy to watch from afar.”

Kit bit her lip to keep from tearing up, and dipped her head in a grateful nod. When she'd finally gathered herself, she was in the other man's arms, and she looked up and met his gaze dry-eyed.

“Hello . . . Saint Francis of the Cherubim tribe.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her as she locked her gaze with that of the Pure. The Universe swirled where his irises were supposed to be, rich and dark and mysterious, punctuated by stars. Galaxies rose and fell, and stars were birthed and died before her.

“Hello, Katherine Craig.”

He was different from when she'd last seen him, fully restored, she assumed, to his former glory.

“Inebriated?” she asked him.

“What do you mean?”

She tipped her head at his body. “You appear on the Surface using the bodies of the very young, old, sick, or drunk. As there's no shortage of alcohol here, I'm guessing you chose the latter.”

“Actually,” he said, taking a deep breath before dipping her expertly, “I've come to the Surface of my own accord. I'm using flesh granted to me by God to access the Surface. Much like your dear Mr. Shaw.”

Though a pang still shot through her heart at Grif's name, it was a relief to be able to talk openly about him with someone. “But Grif said that the Pure find molding their divine nature into human form extremely uncomfortable.”

“It's like detonating a nuclear bomb in your chest,” Sarge confirmed. “But I still owe you.”

“No,” Kit scoffed. “You said that in a
perfect
world you would owe me.”

“Ah, yes. But who can wait around for that?” The left side of his mouth lifted, and they adjusted their rhythm as Elvis's “Blue Moon” began to play. “Besides, you forgave me the night we last spoke, remember?”

“So?”

“So your forgiveness healed me. I really do owe you now. Even God Himself said it was a miracle, and after feeling all that you felt, experiencing every emotion as you did, I have to agree.”

Kit smiled but remained silent, waiting to hear why he was really here. Knowing her thoughts, of course, gave Sarge an advantage, and he inclined his head. “You know, there was a time when I didn't understand why the Chosen wasted their time on love. Even the most ardent affection is ultimately destroyed by death, so why bother?”

Kit thought for a moment. “It's hard to explain to a Pure. You guys are, by nature, fatalists.”

He gave a small laugh at that. “When I was first put in charge of the Centurions, all those lost and broken souls, I found myself sympathizing with the suicides the most.”

“Why?”

“I thought that because death was inevitable, it meant life was empty and hollow by nature. Why bother with any of it? It's all meaningless in light of . . . well, the Light. How much better would it be to just shut it down early, avoid the needless emotion, and come directly to God?”

Kit just shook her head. Trying to explain life, or love, to a Pure would be harder than explaining the sun to the blind.

“And now I see,” he said, reading her mind again. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Kit said after a moment, and realized she really meant it. Yes, she was in mourning, but wasn't that life? She was lucky to have it.

“It's good to see you out,” he said tentatively.

“Yes, well . . .” She motioned around the dance floor at the other people, at the
life
. “There's still living yet to do.”

“And work?”

“There's always work.”

He tilted his head, and almost made it look natural. “So are you still a truth-seeker, Katherine? Still value that above all else, no matter how hard or at what cost?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good,” he said, pulling back. “Then I have another truth for you, though it's not one you can share.”

“No?”

“Look around. Who here would believe you if you spoke to them of Centurions and of the Pure and the Everlast?”

No one.

“Who,” he continued, and released her to wave one hand gracefully through the air, “would ever believe that a man named Griffin Shaw lived and died two lifetimes?”

Nobody. Sometimes she had trouble believing it herself.

“Who,” he finally asked, lifting both hands high, “would believe that miracles happen every day? We just don't see them.”

And an ombré gray mist rose around them, causing the room to still as if captured in concrete, a pseudo-Pompeii.

“Are they okay?” Kit asked, whirling about herself, noting that the music had gone mute. She was the only one who moved.

“You looked like you needed a little breather,” Sarge said, smiling. She did. Too many eyes had been on her all night, Fleur looking but not wanting to be caught doing so; Dennis doing the same, his longing caged. Sarge looked at her now, too, with the debris of the Everlast glossing his gaze and her own sadness reflected in his eyes. “I'm truly sorry for your loss.”

Everybody was. Kit closed her eyes, and an image of Grif flashed through her mind. And everyone could be as sorry as they wanted, but it wouldn't bring him back.

“You couldn't have done anything different, you know,” Sarge said, as she swallowed hard. He put a hand back on her shoulder. “Every step you took was the right one at the time.”

Yes. Fated. “So . . . how is he?”

Sarge just stared at her with that eternal gaze. It was hard to look him in the face, but Kit didn't even blink. After all she'd been through, she had the right to know.

“These things take time,” Sarge finally said. His voice was the gentlest thing she'd ever heard. Somehow that made it worse. “You know, just because something doesn't come in the way you want or expect it to, doesn't mean it isn't a miracle.”

“I imagine that's very easy for you to say from that side of Paradise,” she said, allowing her bitterness to break through for one moment, but Sarge just nodded. He'd known it was there, lying dormant, anyway.

“I'm causing you yet more pain. I didn't mean to, so I'll go. Just . . . do me a favor,” Sarge said, walking backward through the thickened haze. “Don't talk to anybody until I've gone. At least, not until you figure out what's weighing down your left-hand pocket.”

“My left—” Her hand immediately went there, and her eyes went wide as she felt the outline of something long and sharp, but Sarge was shaking his head.

“You keep on living, Katherine Craig. The world may not be perfect but . . . it has its moments.”

Kit frowned at that, watching him turn around, the plasmic clouds swirling and closing rank behind him. She gazed after him, trying to see the moment he disappeared, but it happened so slowly that she didn't even have to blink. He just dissolved before her eyes. Then the music rose to full speed again, Elvis in a throaty croon, and the dance floor came alive around her.

Kit backed away to keep from being trampled, and then reached into her pocket, feeling for the long shape now poking her in the thigh. Edging into a corner, she lifted the object and peered closely at it in the light. It wasn't one item, but two—both soft, downy feathers, pure white and flashing with quicksilver as Kit twisted them around and back.

“They said I wouldn't need them anymore,” said a voice from behind her. “Not where I'm going.”

Kit whirled. He wore a five-o'clock stubble that would, she knew, tickle her palm, if only she could move. His fedora was pristine, as was his suit, though his tie had a sideways slant to it, like he'd been yanking at it, trying to get free. His usual half-lidded gaze had gone wide, and he was looking at her as if afraid
she
might disappear.

Griffin Shaw held out his hand. “Care to dance?”

The room still felt like it was moving at half speed, and Kit swayed.

I really do owe you now
.

One last dance, Kit thought, and smiled for the first time in a week. She sent up a quick prayer of thanks and accepted Grif's hand.

“I feel like I'm dreaming,” she said, ignoring the finer points of the dance to nestle close to his chest. It was the warmest place she knew, and she closed her eyes, breathing him in. Sen-Sen on the breath, coconut in his pomade. Grif—God, it was Grif—again in her arms.

“That's how you know it's a blessed moment.”

And not one she'd ever forget. For now, though, she meant to live it. She held up the feathers that Sarge had given her, that she somehow suspected were binding her to him. “I take it you're not currently on duty?”

“Actually, I'm no longer a Centurion.” He shook his head at her surprised look and pulled her back close. “No more Pure than you.”

She frowned, and then, because she knew she'd kick herself if she didn't ask, said, “And the past?”

“I let it go.” He smiled against her hairline, lips sliding back and forth as he inhaled. “I'm moving on. Next time I die, it's straight through the Gates for me. No stopping at incubation. No wings or Takes or prophecies for me.”

She was so very glad, she was. But the song, already too short, was almost over. “So how long do we have?”

Grif shook his head, causing her heart to sink. “Not long. Just the one . . .”

He trailed off, leaving her imagining the worst. Tune? Hour? Night? What?

“The one?”

“Life,” he finally said, one corner of his mouth turning up in a grin. “It really isn't long, but I bet we can make some memorable moments. That is, if you're still game to ride out your years with an old bull like me?”

She wasn't breathing. She only realized it once she grew light-headed. Then, breathing too hard, threatening to pass out in a totally different way, she began searching the room.

After a moment, Grif asked, “What are you doing?”

Kit didn't answer. Instead, she reached out and poked him in the chest. Finding it solid, she then grasped his wrist. Warm. Bending, she felt at his ankle. No holster. No gun.

“Done frisking me?” he asked wryly.

Straightening, Kit just stared for a moment before poking him again.

“Flesh and bone, Kit. So . . . you know.” He grabbed her wrist. “Stop it.”

“Oh, my God,” she heard herself saying, and then the buzzing overtook her. Kit's knees buckled as her head grew light, but somewhere beyond her consciousness she realized that Grif's arms were still there, strong and tight around her, and he lifted her up again, holding her on her feet until she could manage it herself.

“Go ahead and take a minute,” he said, drawing her close. “I'll be here.”

They swayed, and then the music slid away from them, bouncing into Buddy Holly, sending the room into a subdued frenzy. Yet Kit and Grif only continued touching each other, treating each other's skin like talismans, reassuring themselves that the other was still there. When she found her voice again, she spoke close to his ear. “So . . . flesh?”

“And hopefully some brains thrown in this time, too.”

Couples swung past them like orbiting galaxies. Kit and Grif remained in a world of their own.