Vicki Pettersson - The Given

“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.

“So not Pure?” she said again, making sure. The feathers were bent, clutched in her fist.

“Not Pure,” Grif confirmed, then smiled at her like never before. “Just Chosen.”

The whole room brightened. She didn’t know how long they remained like that, staring at each other, tucked into the corner of their newly born lives, but when the song ended, he was still, miraculously, there. Same as the song after that. And after that. Finally, Grif touched his lips lightly to hers, fusing them both in time and place, in the moment. Together. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Craig.”

“Do you?” she breathed, her head gone light all over again.

“How about you and I go make some memories?”

“How about an entire lifetime full of them?” she replied, finally able to breathe, to smile. To live.

She hoped Sarge could feel this. He needed to know that it wasn’t the pain and sorrow, but the joy in fleeting moments that told a person they were alive. Sure, Kit thought, death always loomed somewhere in the future, but there were worse things to fear than that. Like going through life and never really living at all.

“I think it’s only fair to warn you,” she told Grif, as they sauntered from the club. “I’ve been told that I can be a bit chatty at times.”

“And I can be a bit gruff, or so I hear,” he said, draping his arm over her shoulders. “But one thing’s for sure . . .”

Kit smiled, and finished the thought for him. “We make a damned good team.”

And even the angels in heaven couldn’t argue with that.

This book is for my readers—my VPeeps, my friends, my Tribe. Thank you for taking time to reach out to me via my website, for chatting with me on Twitter, and for giving me a home on Facebook, where I am as teased about my cooking as I am encouraged to write. (Just like real life.) Extra thanks to Facebook friends: Justin Allen for allowing me to abuse his good name and Michelle Ritter Pearsall for suggesting the name Eric. Jann McKenzie and Joy Bannister served as beta readers for this final installment in Kit and Grif’s journey, so if there’s anything amiss in the text, I’m happy to forward along their personal e-mails as places to rant. Finally, to every reader who has opened up his or her mind to meet me on the page, I thank you.