Transcendence (21 page)

“No. Don’t,” I say quickly. “I like it.”

He looks surprised, but doesn’t move away. Instead, he takes my hand and leads me to the big wide bed, pulling me down with him. He kisses my neck and traces my collarbone with his lips before pausing to brush my hair back from my face. “God, do you know how beautiful you are?” His voice trembles as he speaks, and I can feel the restraint he’s exercising in the vibrations that are charging every inch of him.

He props his head up on his left hand as he positions himself next to me, his right hand tracing the outline of my face. Griffon’s top lip curves so perfectly, so invitingly, that I can’t help but reach up and touch it, running my fingers over his face, knowing that I now have permission to do these things that I’ve only thought about over the past several weeks. I can see his muscles move under the thin fabric of his shirt; the veins that run down his neck and disappear into his collar make me long to see more, even in the dim light that drifts in through the curtains.

I push him back against the pillows, pulling the baseball jersey over his head, once again marveling at his smooth, honeyed skin. Griffon’s look is questioning, but he follows my lead and doesn’t protest as I ease his shirt off and toss it aside. I inhale sharply at the sight of his outlined muscles tapering into the slight dip of his baseball pants.

As I start to explore his warm skin, he gently grabs my hand and raises it to his lips, kissing my palm and moving toward me so that there is no visible distance between us, just a tangle of
arms and legs, as close as we can get for now. A dull gold pendant hangs from the black cord around his neck. I reach for it with tentative fingers and watch as goose bumps form on his torso and an audible gasp rises from his throat. It’s an ankh, just like the ones we saw in the record store. And the tattoo on Janine’s neck.

My mind suddenly flashes to that cold, gray day on the scaffold and the pendant I placed into the hand of my executioner. Unlike Griffon’s, mine had been shiny and silver, with a dark red stone in the center, but the symbol is the same. A shiver runs up my spine as I remember what the girl in the store said about the meaning of an ankh.
Eternal life
.

Centuries ago, I’d had one too.

I hold my breath as I turn the corner toward my house. We’d texted all week, but Griffon hadn’t said anything about coming over, and I didn’t want to push it. Which is why I can’t help smiling when I see him sitting outside of my house on Thursday afternoon.

“You might as well come in,” I say, walking up close enough so that I’m inching into his personal space, but not close enough so that we’re actually touching.

“No,” he says. “I’m okay out here. I don’t want to distract you from the lesson.”

“Afternoon, Cole,” my neighbor says as he walks out of the house next door. He’s a Unitarian minister, and even though he’s always been cool to me, I step away from Griffon just a tiny bit. His dog Koda comes up and sniffs the retaining wall before lifting
his leg and peeing on the corner, just like he does pretty much every day.

“Hi, Mr. Proctor,” I say.

“And you are?” he asks as he holds his hand out to Griffon.

“Griffon,” he answers, shaking his hand and smiling broadly. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Mr. Proctor winks at him and nods to me. “You be good to our girl here,” he says, while I cringe inwardly. “She’s special. An actual prodigy.”

Griffon smiles at me. “That’s what I hear.”

As soon as Mr. Proctor is out of sight, Griffon leans in and presses his lips quickly to mine. I lace my fingers through his and he gives them a tight squeeze. His eyes seem to grow darker. “I’m not going to come in, but I do want Veronique to see me as she walks up the street.”

“I can deal with it,” I say, trying to convince myself as well as him. “It’s just a cello lesson. And Mom’s home.”

“Okay,” Griffon says. “As long as you can deal with it, you’ll be able to go out with me tonight.” He says it lightly, but without his customary smile. “Just for an hour or so.”

“What makes you think I don’t have other plans?” I hadn’t made any on purpose, hoping I’d see him, but I don’t want him to think I’m waiting around for him. Which I am.

“Do you?”

I grinned. “I do now.”

“Good. I’ll come up and get you after Veronique leaves.”

I glance up at our window, already trying to figure out how I’m going to get out of the house on a school night. “I’d better go
and set up. Veronique’s going to be here any minute. Are you sure you don’t want to come up?”

“I’m sure. I feel better keeping an eye on things from down here.”

It’s me who leans in this time, kissing him harder on the mouth, not caring if anyone sees us. It’s so difficult to untangle my fingers from his and walk up the stairs alone, and I hope the lesson goes quickly.

Veronique is uncharacteristically late, so when she finally does arrive, we go straight to work, with no mention of Griffon sitting outside. I try to keep my mind on the notes, but I keep glancing at Veronique, hoping to find a flicker of recognition.

We play together for a while, me taking the more difficult melody parts and Veronique working on the easier harmonies. I feel myself starting to relax a little bit.

At the end of the last bar, we both reach up at the same time to turn the page, but as our hands brush, a sense of doom and anger flashes through the room for just a second, and I sit back hard in my chair.

“You okay?” Veronique asks, watching me with concern. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

I blink and shake my head. The panic is gone now, as if the wave has curled over, saturating everything around me and then retreating. I inch away from her, the echoes of what Griffon has said about her racing through my mind, and suddenly I know that the visions aren’t random. Touching Veronique is what has caused them the past two times, and Alessandra in that life must be how I’m connected to Veronique now. “I’m fine,” I say. “Just a little dizzy.”

“Are you still getting headaches?” Concern flashes across her face. “From the accident last week?”

I realize I don’t want her to know what I’ve been feeling and seeing. Janine’s right—as long as she thinks I don’t have a clue, it’s probably safer. “Sometimes,” I say. “The bump only just went away.” Knowing Griffon is outside calms my nerves a little. Suddenly I want him closer without alarming her. “It’s kind of stuffy in here. Let me open a window.” Setting the cello down gently, I walk to the bay window that looks out over the street and unlock it. I peer through the glass down to the planter below, but I can’t see Griffon from this angle.

Grabbing the window pulls, I yank the bottom pane up, but it only tilts about half an inch before it sticks tight.
Thanks, Mom, and your stupid antique houses
. It would be so nice to live in a place where opening a window doesn’t take an enormous feat of strength. I pound on the frame a couple of times to try to shake it loose.

“Here, let me help you,” Veronique says, walking over to the window.

I glance down again, but Griffon is still nowhere in sight, and that makes me feel panicky all over again. I don’t want to look at Veronique in case she can tell what I know, that I’m starting to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and sometime soon I’ll know where she fits. “You grab that side and I’ll grab this side,” I say, pulling on the brass handle. “On three. One, two,
three
.”

In T.V. shows, when something bad happens they slow it way down so that you can see every detail with excruciating clarity. In
CSI
, when someone gets sliced by shards of glass, they show the
stop-motion trajectory of the sharp edges as they slice through skin, muscle, and bone, the drops of blood falling like one of those splatter psychology tests onto the victim’s shirt. This isn’t like that at all. Everything happens so fast I barely realize what’s going on. The sounds of shattering glass fill the room, and there’s a flash of fear as my left hand crashes through the broken window. Without thinking, I quickly pull my arm back inside, not noticing the long piece of glass that’s sticking out through the bottom of the sill.

At first, I don’t feel anything.

“Oh my God,” Veronique says, grabbing my arm just above the wrist and holding it tight. “We need some help!” she shouts, without moving from where we stand frozen in place.

“It’s okay,” I say, trying to pull my arm away from her.

“We have to keep the pressure on it,” Veronique says to me calmly, her grip surprisingly strong.

“Nicole!” Mom says, appearing in the doorway. She rushes over to the window. “Oh my God! What happened?”

“The window broke,” I say, feeling hazy and confused. I watch as rivulets of blood appear from under Veronique’s hands and drop onto the floor. This is all going to make a big mess, not to mention the shattered window pane. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, my tongue feeling thick in my mouth.

“We need some towels,” Veronique says. Her voice is beginning to sound distant, like she’s at the end of a long tunnel.

“Let me see,” Mom says, trying to pull her hand away.

“Not a good idea,” Veronique says in harsh, clipped tones, as if I can’t hear her. “I think she may have severed an artery. You need to call 911. Now.”

Mom races out and Veronique and I are alone in the silent room. My skin feels warm and sticky, but when I look down, it seems like someone else’s hand that’s covered in shiny red blood. My eyelids feel heavy, and my ears are ringing. Before Mom can get back, I know my legs won’t hold me up any longer.

“I think I need to sit down,” I say, and slide against the wall, only partially aware of the red pool that’s forming beneath me. I can smell Mom’s perfume nearby, and that makes me feel better—like everything is going to be fine.

Dimly, I hear pounding at the front door and Griffon’s voice shouting through the glass. I know the door is locked, it’s always locked, but just lifting my head takes more energy than I have left, and all I can do is whisper his name. The wail of sirens sounds in the distance and I want to tell him that the ambulance is coming, that my mom is here, but I can’t open my eyes or make my mouth form the words.

The ocean air is tangy with salt as we sit on the stone stoop of the cottage, my arm wrapped in muslin and tied tight to my body. Looking up, I can see bits of blue sky through the long, brown grass on the roof
.

“My poor bairn,” Mam says. “We’ll get this changed quick as a wink and have you on your way again.” She smiles at me, her blue eyes the same color as the sea that roils on the cliffs below us. The fiery red plait hangs down her back and looks like the setting sun against the whitewashed walls
.

“’Tis paining me,” I cry, tears filling my eyes as she deftly
pulls the bandage off the wound. Angry red skin punctuated by yellow blisters covers most of my arm, and the sight of it is almost worse than the pain
.

“Dear, sweet Allison. Just a wee bit of salve and a clean bandage will have this right as rain in no time,” Mam says. A thick covering of ointment blocks out the air, and the relief makes me smile at her for a second, knowing that she is right
.

The relentless beeping is driving me crazy. I wave my hand around my head, trying to find somewhere to turn off the repetitive noise that is piercing my brain.

“Cole?” My father’s voice is soft and full of concern. “Are you awake?”

“Hmm,” I say, trying to find the words I need. I run my tongue over my lips and try again. “Yeah.” My throat is drier than I’ve ever felt before. “Water,” I manage.

“The nurse is coming,” Dad says, patting my right hand.

Nurse? Where am I? I try to open my eyes, but the fluorescent lights make me shut them again. “Too bright,” I say.

I hear a click above my head and then Dad’s voice again. “Try it now.”

I open my eyes just enough to see the top of a curtain that hangs on a metal track from the ceiling. My head is throbbing, and without moving it I can see a bank of machines on my right, one of which is making the irritating beeping sound. “It hurts,” I say.

“The doctor says that once the pain medication wears off, your arm is going to hurt a bit,” Dad says. I tilt my head to the right just enough to see him. His face has more wrinkles than I remember.

“Not arm,” I say, barely able to form the words I need. “Headache.”

“I’ll ask about that just as soon as they come in,” Dad says.

I look around, remembering the pounding on the door and feeling frustration that I wasn’t able to let him in. “Griffon,” I say. “Where …?”

“He’ll be back,” Dad says. “Close your eyes and get some rest.”

The effort of speaking is too much, and relief overwhelms me as I let myself slip into a dark stream of unconsciousness.

Griffon’s curls are the first things I see when I open my eyes. His arms are folded in front of him and his head is leaning heavily against the bed railing. I can’t see his eyes, but his deep, even breathing tells me that he’s asleep. I watch him for a few minutes, his fingers twitching, acting out whatever vivid dream is streaming across his unconscious. He seems younger while he sleeps, as if the daily effort of keeping up some sort of barrier slips away in unguarded moments. I think about what it would be like to wake up one morning with him next to me, his curls resting on a pillow near my head, his fingers wrapped around mine.

With my free hand I reach up and gently touch his hair, then more boldly twist one of the curls around my finger, its silky curves hugging my skin. With a jolt, Griffon inhales and sits upright, looking around as if he doesn’t know where he is.

“Hey,” I say to him. My lips feel dry and cracked, and I’m sure that I look like a disaster. I’m still glad that he’s sitting next to me.

His eyes soften as soon as he sees me, the deep indentation in his cheek giving away the fact that he’s probably been in that position for a long time. “Cole,” he says. The corners of his eyes look raw, as if he’s been crying. “You okay?”