Vicki Pettersson - The Given

Ten minutes. Kit thought she was all cried out, that there wasn’t enough moisture left in her marrow to spare for tears, but that’s how long it took before she could continue reading. The note was slightly crumpled now, the ink smudged with her tears, but she could still make out the words of Grif’s steady, careful script.

Yeah, I still want to know who set me up for the DiMartinos. Who told them I hurt their little Mary Margaret after I brought her safely home. Who lied about me working with the Salernos to steal those diamonds.

Who the hell took my life away from me while I still had so much living to do?

But all of those questions feel brittle and old under the weight of this heavy, newborn day. They feel like this slip of paper will in another fifty years, filled with thoughts that’ve been rendered irrelevant with the passage of time. Besides, a more important question thrums in my chest now, and this one is so alive that it drew me away from your flesh and your scent and your bed to ask:

What the hell is going to happen to my girl? My doll? My love?

My Katherine Craig?

I can’t answer that. And I don’t think I’ll be able to before day’s end, either. And then I find myself wondering what will your sunrises look like if I’m gone? How will your days stretch out before you, and what will you do to fill in all of those years, all that time? It scares me that after all the things I’ve done, the lives and the Takes and the joints I’ve seen . . . I can’t even imagine it.

Who will you be without me?

But I do know what I imagine for you, and it’s very simply more of what’s already there:

The way you throw your head back when you laugh, like you’re ready to swallow the entire world. The way your arms stretch wide as if you’re opening up your very chest for a hug. The dizzying chatter that speeds from your mouth when you and your hens really get going—laughing and dancing and doing that strange nattering that women do when they’re together. The way your eyebrows turn down as you work out a story, finding answers and meaning and truth in your work. And your day. And your life.

I know how important truth is to you, and I want to give you mine before I go:

I love you, Katherine Craig. I love you like God loves His Chosen. And if fate decrees that this day not go in our favor, then I will tell the heralds to sing your praises, and the Guardians to watch over your dark head. I will threaten the archangels if anything is to befall you, and I will do everything in my power to see you safe and protected and duly blessed from my place in the Everlast.

And, Kit, listen to me: You must live. I may be the Centurion, but you’re the one with the real wings. You hold more love for what God has created than anyone I know. The Host may have thrust the breath back into my chest as a form of punishment just over a year ago, but it was you who really taught me how to live.

I’m going back to bed now. I’m going to claim you as mine again before this fated day really gets going, and I’m going to watch your limbs fall, weighted and limp, across my chest. Your breathing will be like the ocean’s roar in my ear, and for a moment, at least, I am going to wipe your mind of any worry. But no matter what happens, you must not grieve for me. I have learned something in this second lifetime that I didn’t in my first go-round. You have taught me the most important truth of all:

Love isn’t just worth remembering and saving. True love is what saves us all.

It was that letter that finally got Kit up and out of her house. It propelled her past the bathroom mirror that she’d shattered in her anger over the heartlessness of a Pure, and into the shower to wash off the grief that felt like it was caking her soul. She stayed under the spray until the hot water ran out and her fingertips were wrinkle-tipped, and when she returned to gaze into that broken mirror, she told herself she felt a little lighter, a little better. Perhaps in time she’d even believe it.

Her gaze dropped to the cracked webbing of the glass, and for a moment she saw the dust of stars swirling behind the aluminum coating on the other side. But, no. It was just steam from the shower. Kit was utterly alone.

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.”