Ann Aguirre - Mortal Danger

He didn’t lecture us about staying up too late or give me a speech about how Kian wasn’t to be trusted. Instead, he kissed my cheek and went to the guest bedroom and shut the door with a quiet, final click. Bereft, I sank down on the sofa.

“This isn’t a dream,” I said to Kian.

Sadly he shook his head.

The dam burst. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the ache for my mom blossomed in my chest. I remembered our lunch. Lobster rolls. It feels like we should celebrate. To new beginnings. Now, like the Teflon crew, she was gone, but—

I never wished for this. I never did. Never.

Mom, no.

I protected Vi instead of my mother; that was my choice. But all this time, I thought the man with the sack and the awful children were hunting me. If I’d known, I would’ve used my favor to make sure she was safe. I’m so sorry, Mom. I imagined them knocking on our door, after Mr. Lewis’s protective measures failed, hiding their nightmare skins under an illusion of normalcy. Mom would’ve invited them in. But if I’d warned her, she wouldn’t have believed me.

She never wore makeup because she didn’t feel pretty. So why try? If I hadn’t gotten to know her better, I never would’ve learned that about her … or the curling iron story about my grandmother. My mom always had ink stains on her sweaters. She …

… died in a pool of blood. Did she suffer? Or was it quick?

She never taught me about electrical wiring. I never showed her how to do her face with the autumn mineral makeup we bought together. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t— Kian wrapped his arms around me, but he didn’t try to staunch my sobs. He stroked my back, my hair, and let me weep until I couldn’t breathe.

“They’ll never know. The case will go cold, someone will file it.”

“You said…” His voice caught. “That you were ready to give me up. If there was anything I could do, if I could , I’d trade places with her for you.”

Hard shudders racked me from head to toe. “Idiot. No swaps, no deals. I want both of you. I don’t want this, Kian. I can’t have this . I just want it to be over. I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

“It can’t be undone,” he said, as if I didn’t know that. But maybe in our world, there were certain mutable realities, and death was more of a swinging door. “Sometimes people use favors to bring loved ones back, but … they’re never right. I’m so sorry.”

Oh.

“Is there any way to make him pay?” The words came before I could stop them, before my brain could remind me that it was my quest for revenge that carried me here.

“Who?”

“The old man with the sack.” I realized then; I’d never told him. He knew about the thin man, but this monster, I had kept all for my own.

It might not do any good, but I told him everything then. Too late, too late. My muscles locked, as I waited for him to yell at me and tell me this was my fault. But his face paled instead. He covered my hand with his, eyes grave.

“If Dwyer sent him, there was nothing you could do. Telling me wouldn’t have changed anything. It kills me to admit it, but I bartered away my last coin keeping you safe.” He didn’t mean currency, of course, but the last thing any immortal would want, whatever that was. “I wish I could’ve protected your mother, too, but it doesn’t work that way.”

One person, one favor, I know. Hope you didn’t sell your soul for me. That would mean he couldn’t escape his masters, even in death. I don’t want to be the rocks in your pockets, dragging you under. Oh, Kian, don’t let me drown you.

I might. And you’d let me.

“Don’t look like that,” he begged.

“Will you read me something?” Glancing around his apartment, I saw he had taken my advice. Everything he had left from his old life, he’d arranged—books on the shelves, journal nearby with a quality pen, and his two small trophies sat above the TV. Despite the heart breaking over and over inside me, it was almost enough to dry my tears.

Almost.

“Like what?”

“Another poem. Something beautiful.”

“I have one I wrote for a competition. It’s less … emotional, more about pretty imagery and theme. Maybe that one?”

“If you wrote it, I want it.” Breathing was onerous with lead on my chest. I ached as if I had fought an avalanche and lost. Somewhere, the old man with the sack had my mother’s head, and the wind spoke with Cameron’s voice.

This is madness. No. This is Boston.

Hysteria tapped against the glass wall I’d built around this fragile calm. I didn’t let it in. Kian grabbed his notebook and then settled down with me tucked against his side. With a crisp snap, he opened to a page already marked. “My mother loved this one.”

“I’m sure I will, too.”

“It’s called ‘Firebird.’”

“Stop stalling and read.” I put my head on his shoulder.

He huffed out a breath. His shifting told me he was nervous. For some reason, his jitters calmed mine. It grew easier to breathe. I closed my eyes, letting his voice wash over me.

“Pointed beauty, sienna, umber, the sky in autumn rage;

Slim maids weep their hued tears,

a touch of lace, bright mantle of their undress.

Crisp, air a-bite with apples, rich with winter.

Mother’s lament for fled daughter, angry arms,

accusing heaven’s twilight; wispy kiss, mourning mist beneath our boots.

And how should I, walking this old earth, think to tread those paths?

Human, humbled by these elders turning down thin hands,

We stand and breathe, remembering that bird, fluttering

with color in these dark boughs, remembering

Its conviction of passage—it must fly or die.”

“Beautiful. I love it. It’s about the foliage turning in the fall,” I said. “And how much you wanted to be free.”

He nodded, closing the book. “Now, I know it’s an illusion. Nobody ever truly is. There are prices to be paid, obligations to meet.”

I met his gaze, sure of only one thing. “That’s not true. When the time comes, we have to be like that bird. Fly or die, Kian. Promise me.”

He kissed me instead of answering, but if I had to drag him over the cliff with me, so be it. Whatever it takes, we’ll fly.

There was no holiday those four days.

My dad dealt with the practicalities, and Kian tried to do Thanksgiving with lunchmeat turkey slices and instant potatoes, bought at a convenience store. Along with canned peas and white bread with butter, it was pretty much the saddest feast anyone ever tried to eat. I didn’t cry until he busted out the weirdest dessert ever—some kind of cookie layered with pudding. Then I hid in the guest room until I calmed down because it should’ve been my dad doing the cooking while my mom and I set the table.

Kian tapped lightly. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

“It’s not the food. You weren’t planning to have guests for Thanksgiving.” Or ever, from the look of his cupboards.

“I usually go to my aunt and uncle’s house.”

“Are they worried about you?”

“I told them I’d be with my girlfriend. I think my aunt was … relieved.”

I frowned, wiping at a trickle of tears. “Why?”

“I’m a reminder of the old scandal. She never liked my dad and she hated having me in the house. For my uncle’s sake, she pretended I was welcome, but…” He shrugged. “She wasn’t sorry when I graduated and moved to Boston.”