Amber Frost (17 page)

“And then you’ll trust me, you’ll give me another chance?”

“Then I’ll trust you,” I replied, swallowing the guilty lump in my throat. I hated to mislead him but the extra time with Sebastian was worth it.

“Okay, I’ll do it then – for you. I’d do anything for you, Grace.”

I winced again. “Thanks, Clarke. I owe you. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, maybe we could go for coffee?” he suggested hopefully.

“Call me,” I answered, avoiding the question. “Thanks, Clarke. It’s good to know I can count on you. Bye.” I quickly hung up the phone.

“I take it you’ve become available for the evening,” Sebastian asked as soon as I hung up.

“Was there any doubt?” I teased. He laughed at my forced nonchalance. “How long can I stay?”

“As long as you want. No, actually, as long as
I
want,” he corrected with a grin.

“I won’t stay the night,” I warned him. I was surprised at myself for actually briefly considering it.

“I don’t expect you to,” he assured me. “Besides, the Jensons would be sure to disapprove.” I’d completely forgotten about Sebastian’s foster parents. I wriggled around so that I was able to face him. I pulled my knees up, hugging them against my chest as I considered how to ask my next question.

“How exactly does that work, with the Jensons?” I asked, curiously. “I mean, if you don’t consciously influence their thoughts or actions, how is it that they seem to do exactly what you want? They must know about you.”

“Yes, they know,” he agreed. “And no, I can’t control their thoughts or actions – or their emotions. Our relationship is simply a mutual understanding. They can’t have any children and they wanted a son, someone to care for, someone who needed them. I wanted a family, I needed a home – fate brought us together. I told them the truth about me, or what little I could remember anyway, right from the start. At first they didn’t believe me but in time they came to witness for themselves that not only do I obviously not age, things also seem to ‘happen’ around me the way I want them to.”

“But when you first told them about yourself they must have thought you were crazy! Why didn’t they call a psychiatrist or the police? Or even child protective services?”

“I’m sure they thought about it but of course I didn’t want them to,” he explained. “And so whenever they tried, something distracted them and prevented them from turning me over to the authorities. And then once they had seen for themselves the truth of my words, they wanted to help me. It was Mrs. Jenson’s idea to enroll me at Craigflower. She saw how lonely I was, how depressed I was becoming even with their support. She thought I might make friends there. I never dreamt that she would be right.” We shared a smile.

“You say you were lonely… do you think there are any others like you?”

“Perhaps… In my dreams, I often see the same familiar faces over and over again, in different times and different places, and I wonder if perhaps they could be like me too… I don’t remember though,” he told me quietly. “I don’t really know who or what I am. Since I’ve met you, I’ve seen glimpses of my past, I’ve remembered bits and pieces but there are still large holes in my memory. I’ve been alive a long time, Gracelynn, a very, very long time. Part of me wonders if I can’t remember simply because there is so much I’ve seen, so many things I’ve experienced; it’s too much for one person, for one mind. I can only vaguely remember my own parents. I’ve regained just a couple of memories of my childhood but at least I know I was human once; I
think
I still am.”

“But you don’t remember how it started? How you became… like this?”

“No, and I’m not sure if I will. It might just be too long ago…”

I hesitated, debating whether I should ask or not. I decided I needed to know.

“How long ago?”

He met my eyes without wavering. I could tell he was uncertain of how to answer, perhaps afraid of my reaction. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“As near as I can tell, I was born in Ireland approximately mid-sixteenth century.”

I nodded, as if this were to be expected, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The boy who sat before me, this beautiful, fascinating, curious creature, who I loved with my entire being, was around four hundred and fifty years old. Though I remained outwardly calm, I was stunned, completely floored by this pronouncement, though it did make a certain amount of sense. The ancient look that sometimes appeared in his eyes, his wisdom and experience, his vast knowledge, and his very manner, the way he behaved and sometimes spoke.

“Does that change how you feel about me?” he asked tersely.

“No,” I answered quickly, and it was true. “But… it is going to take me a while to get my head around,” I admitted. “This is all so overwhelming. It’s nice to finally have some answers. ”

“It’s actually nice to be able to give them to you. I want the only secrets left between us to be the ones that I also keep from myself,” he said with a laugh.

“So I can ask you more, and you’ll answer?” I encouraged.

“If I know the answer, I will share it with you,” he promised. I considered this carefully, contemplating what I should ask next. He watched me in amusement. “You’re really concentrating, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m trying to decide, there are so many things I want to know.”

“And?”

“Your nightmares; will you tell me about them?” His reaction didn’t surprise me; he immediately looked reluctant, his smile turning into a grimace.

“I’d rather not,” he answered, “but if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.” There was a clear warning in his eyes. He didn’t think I was ready to hear this. I decided to ease him into it.

“Why don’t you begin by telling me when they started?”

He sighed, hesitating once more. “I can’t remember not having nightmares,” he answered slowly, cautiously. “I tried everything to stave them off; not wanting them was never enough. I think you were right about my nightmares holding memories in them – that would explain why I couldn’t stop them, because I wanted to remember my past.”

“I want to understand,” I told him quietly. “You don’t have to tell me all the details of your nightmares but I want to know what it is that scares you so much. I need to know, to understand you.” He stared at me for a long time, all his conflicting desires clear in his eyes. Eventually he gave a very slight, reluctant nod. Though I was sure in my decision, I was also a little afraid of what he was about to reveal of himself to me.

“My nightmares… they are memories from so long ago, near the beginning I think, when I first became… how I am,” he said simply. I reached forward and squeezed his hand gently, encouraging him to continue. “The images are so dark, so violent. The anger I feel in them – it terrifies me. I’m used to controlling my emotions now, I never let myself become that angry, that furious. I suppose I learnt how dangerous it is to lose my temper, to be angry enough that I could want to kill someone. And not just to want them to die but to want them to suffer, to feel excruciating pain.” He met my gaze then and though he sounded ashamed, his eyes were unapologetic; they were cold, hard, black orbs.

“I don’t ever lose my temper now, Gracelynn. I wouldn’t let myself be anywhere near you if I thought there were any chance I might cause you even the slightest bit of harm,” he told me earnestly, his eyes softening as he read the fear in mine.

“I know,” I assured him quickly, and I did. But to hear him speak like that, to see the darkness in his eyes… I didn’t want to imagine what he may have done in his past. No wonder he had wanted to forget.

“I know how to control myself now. I understand that what I may want in the moment is far different than what I really and truly want from life. I just want to be happy and it does not, nor will it ever, make me happy to cause someone else pain. I can assure you that.” He turned over my trembling hand and placed a tender kiss in the center of it. I tried to smile at him but my face felt frozen; all the words I wanted to say, all the reassurances in my heart, stuck in my throat.

“What are you thinking?” he asked anxiously. “Please, tell me the truth. It’s alright if you’re afraid, if this changes things between us. I’ll understand,” he assured me quietly but I could see the pain and fear in his eyes as he spoke.

“No, never,” I answered, finally finding my tongue. I realized then that no matter what secrets he may still have, no matter what else there was that he may have done in his past, it would never change how I felt about him. The realization was satisfying. I was finally able to smile at him, to honestly reassure him that I loved him no matter what because now I understood just how true that was. He looked at me hesitantly, as if he didn’t quite believe me. He still looked afraid, and ashamed at what I had made him confess. “I have a request,” I told him, hoping to distract him from his sad and somber mood.

“Your wish is my command,” he answered with a somewhat forced smile. I could tell he appreciated the change of subject but from the tightness around his eyes, I could also tell that he was still thinking about the nightmares, the memories of the horrors he had once caused.

“Take off your shirt,” I instructed. His eyes opened wide in surprise, his tension instantly replaced by a new kind. “I want to see your tattoos,” I explained, blushing only slightly.

“I didn’t realize you were so eager to get my clothes off,” he teased, quickly regaining himself. He didn’t move an inch. I blushed, despite myself.

“You’re stalling,” I accused. Surprisingly, his smile faltered. He eyed me uncertainly.

“I’ll show you,” he agreed. “But… I’m not used to people looking at my tattoos. They’re… well, you’ll see. It’s a little embarrassing to not be able to remember the story behind them, though I know there is one for each. I’m sure they convey an intensely personal significance; I’m just not sure what that is.”

“You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.” It wasn’t that important to me and I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable just to satisfy my curiosity.

“I know,” he answered, his eyes twinkling.

He was still wearing his school shirt. He quickly unbuttoned it to reveal a white t-shirt underneath.

“My tattoos are all black,” he explained as he shrugged his arms out of the long-sleeve shirt. I could already see the curious, intricately-patterned tattoo coiling down his right forearm and into the palm of his hand. “They show through my shirt unless I wear layers.” He hesitated again, his eyes considering me, then he moved off the bed to come to stand in front of me near its edge. He gently took my hands, pulled me forward and placed my hands at his waist. My pulse began to pick up in pace as he slid the material of his white, cotton t-shirt between my fingers. His hands lingered over mine. I looked up to see him gazing down at me, a slowly burning passion building in his eyes. The look he gave me thrilled and frightened me all at the same time.

“Go ahead,” he encouraged as he slowly lifted his arms above his head.

I shifted onto my knees, and watched his chest evenly rise and fall as I carefully lifted his shirt. Slowly, inch by inch, I exposed his warm, smooth skin. My hands slid up over his flat stomach, across the muscles of his chest, along his lean, muscled arms as I gently tugged his shirt up and over his head. I let it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap, instantly forgotten. I was spellbound by what I saw before me.

I was first struck by just how intensely attractive he was. The muscular physique that had been hinted at through his clothes was revealed before me. My desire for him was abruptly overwhelming, it took my breath away. Secondly, I noticed his tattoos.

The strange, intricate, spiraling pattern twisted from his hand, up his arm and wrapped around his shoulder, the edges of it almost reaching the side of his neck. It continued on its thorny path down the right side of his ribcage, tapering off just above his hip in a strange, root-like pattern. Over his left ribcage was another tattoo of four dark symbols, possibly hieroglyphics, forming a straight line down his side. Directly over his heart was a third black design, about the size of my fist. At first it just looked like an intricate Celtic knot but upon closer inspection I realized the ‘knot’ was formed by the carefully shaped letters of a small and flowing script in an unfamiliar language.

I ran my fingers over his skin, tracing the shapes and lines of his tattoos in awe. I looked up at him in wonder. He was watching me silently.

“You’re beautiful,” I whispered to him, bending my head to kiss the tattoo over his heart. I felt him shiver as my lips touched his skin.

“Wait,” he instructed quietly as he took a small step back from me. He then slowly began to turn around. I gasped aloud as I saw his other tattoo, the breath rushing from between my parted lips.

His whole back was one large, amazing tattoo. A Celtic cross ran up the length of his spine and out across the backs of his shoulders. It was stunning; literally breath-taking. Whoever had inked this tattoo on Sebastian was a true artist. The detail was overwhelming; everywhere I looked something new would jump out at me as images, symbols and words seemed to all be hidden and twisted into the beautiful design. And the skill and shading involved was even more impressive, making the tattoo look unbelievably real and three-dimensional. It fit his back perfectly, beautifully melding into the curves of his muscles, defined by the shape of his own body. Now that I had seen it, I could no longer imagine him without this tattoo. It was so obviously meant to be there; an undeniable part of him.