Kiss Me Deadly Page 29

  And yet it doesn’t matter that she believes him: belief is irrelevant in the face of fact. He brought the infection. She allowed it to happen.

  “I will take care of the infected child,” she says softly. She looks at the other women in the room—really looks at them. At how soft some of them appear. How old and tired. How they devote their lives to God and leave nothing for themselves.

  How unlike Tabitha. She who lusted. She who put desire for a man before God. She who almost brought down her village.

  “And the older brother?” the head Sister asks. For the first time Tabitha realizes the hesitation in her voice. She realizes how weak this woman is to be in charge of not just the Cathedral, but the fate of the village. She wonders if any of the rest of them know of the journal downstairs, know of the legacy of their survival.

  Tabitha thinks about taking Patrick’s hand and leading him down the path and away from the village. Of banishing herself and him together. She smiles, letting the dream roll warm and round in her mind.

  “He I will take care of as well,” Tabitha says.

  “About the circumstances in which the older boy was found...,” the head Sister begins to say, leaving an opening for Tabitha to fill in the blank.

  Tabitha stands and squares her shoulders. She keeps her chin level and voice even as she says. “It is none of your concern.” She sweeps toward the door, black tunic floating around her ankles. She waits for the head Sister to challenge her, to maintain her authority and dress Tabitha down in front of her peers for what she’s allowed to happen. But the old woman is silent.

  “What will you do?” one of the other Sisters asks, as if this was some sort of democracy where everyone can voice a thought.

  She pauses in the doorway, examining them, meeting their eyes one by one. Establishing her control. “I will do what is necessary,” Sister Tabitha responds.

  ***

  The boy is small and broken and weak. His moans are those of a newborn kitten. Tabitha steps into her room and walks toward the window easily avoiding his reach. He starts to pull himself across the floor toward her, and she stands and stares at the Unconsecrated outside past the fences.

  So much useless death. Such a waste.

  When the boy is closer Tabitha kneels and cups his cheeks in her hands. He tries to squirm, tries to twist and turn so that he can taste her. “May God show mercy on us both,” she whispers before snapping his neck and bashing his small fragile head against the stone floor.

  For a while she looks at him. If only Patrick had asked her to go away with him. If only they’d been on the path when the boy turned, he could have infected them both. They could have woken up dead, entwined together forever.

  ***

  As she unties Patrick’s ropes she avoids his eyes.

  But he grabs her and makes her look at him. “I didn’t know he was infected,” he says, his voice hoarse and lips dry. “My mother gave him to me, told me to take him away. I never knew.”

  Tabitha nods. “I believe you,” she says. And it’s true.

  “I would never lie to you, Tabby. I love you too much.”

  She nods again. She understands this as well.

  She tells him they put his brother in a special room—a safe place where Patrick could say good-bye. Then, she tells him, she will lead him back into the Forest and away from the village and together they will find a way to live and love beyond this constricted world.

  He doesn’t question as she pulls him down the stairs into the basement, nor when she pulls aside the curtain and unlocks the hidden door. He follows her blindly as she leads him down the dark tunnel. She stops at the stairs climbing from the ground at the far end.

  They face each other and Tabitha inhales deep, the scent of him mingling with the smell of old smoke and rot. She closes her eyes, trying to sear it into her memory. Slowly, she runs a hand up his arm, along his collarbone and around his neck until her fingers dig into his hair.

  She thinks about the kiss they almost—but never—shared and she wonders if his lips could have been a part of her, if they could have left this world before his infected brother Returned—if their love had been pure, maybe they’d have been able to stop time.

  “I will love you always,” she says, pulling his lips to hers.

  Through her kiss she tries to explain everything that words cannot. About love and duty and God and need and choices and memory and history. She wants him to taste her and understand her. In that kiss is everything she was and could be, all that she’s giving up in her life.

  She needs to take this part of him with her because it’s the only way she can go back to the life she needs to live. To her duty to village and God.

  When she pulls away she’s crying and Patrick reaches up to her cheek and catches a tear on his finger. He doesn’t realize she’s saying good-bye to him. “I will love you always,” he says, and she smiles, sad and aching.

  She gestures for him to go up the stairs first, and he pushes open the door. Before he disappears above ground she presses her lips to her fingers and her fingers against his spine, and then he’s gone and she closes and locks the door behind him.

  She huddles on the top step and listens to him bang and call for her and then to the sound of the moans. She tears at her clothes and her body, raking her nails against her flesh hoping to let the agony pulsing inside her escape, but nothing can dull the torment.

  ***

  Her hand shakes as she dips the pen into ink and holds it above the page. The printed words are impossible to decipher, tears trembling from her eyes and her body racked with sobs. And then she writes: There is always a choice. It is what makes us human. It is what separates us from the Unconsecrated. But that does not mean that choice cannot turn men into monsters. I have chosen survival over life.

  ***

  In her life, Tabitha has felt consuming desire only once—on those too short days with Patrick in the Forest. She watches him along the fences with the others now, at the way he grabs at the metal links and pleads and begs. She touches the old note from him, tucked against her breast under the cross she wears around her neck.

  A part of her likes to believe that he’s different from the others, that he doesn’t moan for anyone but her. That he spends his days and nights trying to return to her.

  He is always there for her, always waiting. The most constant companion anyone could pray for. One of these days she will return to him. She will feel that desire again, that need beyond human comprehension, and they will be together forever.

  Familiar

  BY MICHELLE ROWEN

  “That one.”

  The witch followed the direction of my pointing finger, which singled out a tiny, tawny-colored striped kitten sitting in the far corner of the pen. She frowned with disapproval.

  “Wouldn’t you rather have one of the others, Brenda? They’re more playful. That little runt looks half-dead. I’m not even sure why my apprentice put it in the mix today.”

  I shrugged. “I guess half-dead runts appeal to me. My mother said I could pick whichever one I wanted.”

  “Your mother also said she’s wanted you to do this for almost a year now.”

  “What can I say? I’ve been busy.”

  I tried to ignore the icy glare my flippant comment inspired. When it came to witch manners, I figured I was lacking. Not that I really cared. It’s not like my powers were any big deal. Not compared to my mother’s.

  “Go pick out your familiar so you can start your real training.”

  “But I don’t want to be a witch.”

  “You can’t change what you already are.”

  We’d had this discussion every Monday for nearly a whole year, ever since I turned sixteen. But when you don’t really want to do something, it’s hard to feign interest. Basically, I just wanted to be normal. I didn’t want to go into the “family business,” as it were.

  Maybe I should have gone to live with my dad after the divorce. Normal high school, normal f
riends, normal life. I just wished I knew for sure what the right answer was. A little bit of perfect clarity would really come in handy every now and then.

  Like this—picking out my “familiar.” A familiar is a witch’s pet, an animal that becomes her constant companion and is supposed to help her do magic and bring protection and good luck. Frankly, I could use all the luck I could get. My mom was a high-level, respected witch in our neighborhood coven, but me? I could barely do a decent card trick. Mom said it’s because I don’t practice very much, but I had other things to do. More important things. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

  But to get her off my back for a while, I agreed to go to Hocus Pocus, a magic shop that supplies all sorts of witchy paraphernalia—including potential familiars. There were cats, ferrets, snakes, rats, even a couple of bats. No puppies, though. I really would have preferred a puppy.

  I wasn’t much of a cat person. But, in my opinion, it was way better than a snake.

  The kitten hissed as Mrs. Timmons picked it up by the scruff of its neck.

  “Interesting,” she said. “It’s wearing a little rhinestone collar. Denise must have put it on earlier. I’ll include it with the price since it suits him.”

  “Great,” I said, not really listening to her. Instead I swept my gaze over the interior of the shop. I’d been there loads of times before with my mom as she picked up her supplies. The place always creeped me out with its musty, dusty interior and cluttered shelves holding everything from carved wooden boxes to crystal balls of all shapes and sizes to herbs and spices for potion-making to what looked like a dried-up severed monkey’s paw on a shelf directly to my right.

  I grimaced. Poor monkey.

  “Here you go,” Mrs. Timmons said, and her face cracked into a thousand wrinkles as she forced a smile that was not even slightly genuine. She didn’t like me very much. I once heard her call me a troublemaker. She handed me an open shoebox that weighed next to nothing even with the tiny kitten sitting inside. “I know your mother already has a feline familiar, so I won’t worry about food and litter.”

  “No. Don’t worry.”

  “You’ll have to give it a name. Just concentrate and it’ll come to you. Remember, there’s power in names, so be sure it’s the right one.”

  “Power in names. Got it.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Do I need to pay anything right now?”

  “No. I’ll bill your mother’s account.”

  “Okay, then, bye. Thanks.” I turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Mrs. Timmons grabbed my arm. “One last thing.”

  “What?”

  “The bond.”

  “The—”

  “It’s important it be done right away. As long as you’re certain this kitten is your chosen familiar...”

  “Couldn’t be more positive if I tried.” I glanced at the clock on the wall that read seven o’clock. How long was this going to take?

  Mrs. Timmons grabbed my wrist tightly and reached into the box to touch the kitten. “I bond you together as Brenda Collins, apprentice witch, and her loyal and obedient familiar.”

  “And what does— ahh !” I gasped as an electric bolt of pain jolted through me so fast I barely had time to register it.

  “Ow! Damn it!”

  I frowned at the sound of the pained male voice. Who said that?

  “Now you can go.” Mrs. Timmons wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and gave me a weary look. “Give my regards to your mother.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  I was out of there before she changed her mind and turned me into a toad, or something. Mission accomplished. I hoped this would be enough to get Mom off my back for a while longer. I mean, the cat had to grow up before it could be any real use to me. How long did I have? A few months, maybe?

  I’d take what I could get.

  “Now I have a kitten,” I mumbled, holding the shoebox close to my chest as I walked home in the dusky light of early evening. It was only a half-mile to my house from the store. “At least you’re cute enough. Kind of antisocial, but cute. Sort of like me, without the cute part.”

  “I think you’re cute.”

  I stopped walking and looked over my shoulder. No one was there. I continued on walking, figuring it was just my imagination. My positive affirmations bubbling to the surface. Mom always told me not to put myself down. Maybe I was starting to get it.

  “I have no idea what to call you,” I said. “Mrs. Timmons said just to concentrate and it would come to me.”

  “The name’s Owen.”

  “I don’t like that name at all,” I told my imagination. “I want something way cooler than Owen.”

  My imagination swore under its breath. “Wait a minute, you can read my thoughts? How the hell can you do that?”

  I was about to answer my imagination when I noticed that someone was standing in my way. Two men, actually, both well over six feet tall with broad chests and shoulders like football players, blocking what little light there was on the horizon. I stopped walking and looked at them nervously.

  “We need that,” one of them said.

  “I don’t have any money,” I stammered. “Like, maybe five bucks total.”

  “Keep your money, we just want what’s in the box.”

  I looked down at the box holding the kitten. The kitten itself eyed me curiously for a moment before the box was pulled completely out of my hands. The kitten jumped out, and one of the men grabbed for it.

  “ Hands off,” my imagination—which I was now thinking wasn’t my imagination at all—snarled.

  The kitten arched its back and hissed, swiping a tiny paw in the man’s direction.

  “Aw, isn’t that adorable?” one of the men said sarcastically to the other. “Little Owen’s showing his big, scary claws. Kids. Pain in the ass, if you ask me.”

  Before I could say anything, do anything, something crazy happened. And, growing up in a house with a magic-using witch as a mother, that was saying something.

  The kitten grew before my very eyes.

  Instead of a tiny striped kitten standing between me and the men, there was now a huge tiger who had to be five hundred pounds or more.

  It growled, baring long sharp teeth and flicked a glance at me.

  “Stay back. Werewolves are dangerous even in human form.”

  Werewolves? I staggered back a step, almost falling over.

  “Come on,” one of the men said, although he was backing up a step at a time. “We don’t want a fight, Owen. Not here, not now. Just give us what we’re after, and nobody has to get hurt.”

  What they got was another fierce growl as the huge tiger moved toward them. Without another word, they turned and ran, the tiger stalking after them.

  Had they called the tiger Owen?

  I looked with shock down at the discarded shoebox that had contained a tiny kitten only minutes ago. Next to it was the sparkling collar the kitten had been wearing around its neck— rhinestone, Mrs. Timmons had said. I reached down and picked it up, looking at it closer. I didn’t know jewelry, but it didn’t really look like cheap knock-off rhinestone jewelry to me. And it didn’t look like a collar for a pet. It looked like a bracelet with a broken clasp. A diamond bracelet.