Eternal Eden (22 page)

“What did John want?” I asked, eager to change the topic from near death experiences and future encounters. I got up from the high-backed chair and strolled to a chaise in the corner of the library.

From William’s troubled expression, I doubted if my hopes for lighter conversation would be realized. “There’s a bit of a problem down at OSU.”

“A problem?” I plopped down on the chaise, tucking one leg beneath me. I reached for the throw pillow in the corner and hugged it to my chest, needing something to squeeze as we breached yet another topic of significance.

“Your friend Paul has formed a search party to find you. They’re running searches, hotlines, flyers . . . the whole bit. He’s stirred up a media circus down in Corvallis.” He talked to the ground while he shuffled over to where I sat. The start of a rain shower could be heard overhead, tinkling against the stained-glass ceiling, sounding like an imperfect melody played against oil drums.

“Everyone thinks I’ve gone missing . . .” I stated, not yet considering the ramifications I’d left behind in my Mortal world. Of course no one could, or would know the truth.

“No.” He exhaled with force while seating himself on the edge of the chaise. “Everyone thinks you’re
dead
.”

“Everyone thinks I’m dead?” I echoed, gripping the pillow tighter to me.

“Yes, the Immortal way is not an easy one,” he said solemnly. He rested his head into one of his hands. “By law, when an Immortal is created, a Mortal death must be staged to lesson the likelihood for these kinds of events taking place.” He reached into his pant’s pocket and withdrew a folded scrap of newspaper. He rustled open the quarter-folded article and handed it to me.

“When a Mortal just disappears—goes missing—those left behind are forever left with uncertainty, and a hope that their loved one will one day be recovered. There have been problems with this in the past . . .” He trailed off, while I read the headline.

OSU Basketball Captain and Teammates Non-believers in Bryn Dawson’s Drowning.
Below the headline was a black and white photo of Paul standing in front of our dorm, looking ever so Paul—hands in his pockets, and wearing a smile that could bedazzle the light off a firefly.

“I should have told you before you had to find out this way,” he said, sounding somber. “A couple of John’s men swore to eyewitness accounts that you drowned that night . . . though your body was never recovered, of course. The general populace has accepted that you died. That is, except for Paul. Who is in fact correct.”

Below the photo, was a quote from Paul:
Bryn Dawson’s still alive. I’m certain of that, and I’m going to find her
.

I shook my head. I didn’t deserve such faithful, compassionate people in my life. I refolded the article, not wanting to read the ugly details, and handed it back to William. His expression was collected, but his eyes searched over my face with care.

“Why did John think this was so important he needed to interrupt—” I stopped mid-way through my question, the red-light flashing in my head.

“He thinks this is all your fault . . . creating me, and because of that, now Paul is threatening to find me and potentially uncover what’s really happened?”

His eyes gazed up where the oil-drum symphony had increased its tempo with the downpour. “That’s correct. He expects me to take care of the problem—to clean up my mess.”

“Expects you to take
care
of it?”—another flashing light—“Oooooh.” I jumped up, dropping the pillow to the floor. “He wants you to  . . .to . . . ” I couldn’t say the word, so I substituted. “
Hurt
him?”

My eyes grew wild, until they settled enough to focus on his, and my worries of William doing anything to Paul abated; but I was sure someone in John’s entourage would do what William would not.

The wildness returned.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to Paul Lowe. I convinced John that I have a surefire plan that will take care of this problem without having to end his life.”

I grimaced and continued pacing in tight circles.

“Besides, I could never hurt another person who’s only looking out for you. As much of a problem as Paul could cause us, I cannot fault him in his goal.” He arose and approached me. “I
will
take care of this.”

“Now, for two minutes, can I be allowed some time just to be with you? No talk of Immortals and Mortals, and life and death?” The right corner of his mouth pulled up, attacking my worries. One arm wrapped around me, and then the other, and when he drew me into his embrace, all my worries flitted towards the ceiling and crashed into the stained-glass, creating their own kind of music.

“This was the most tortured day of my life, you know,” he groaned. “I barely caught myself—on several different occasions—from leaping over the table at you whenever you’d open that lovely mouth of yours in question, or when those eyes would search with such insight.”

“Tell me about it,” I whispered against his chest. “I had to contend with the most incredible professor ever created, and sit next to a girl who acts like she’d sell her soul for two minutes alone with you.”

I felt him shake his head. “You live in such a state of delusion.” His head leaned back and his hands rested over my face, tilting it towards him. His eyes blazed into mine. “There’s never been anyone but you, Bryn . . . ever. You’ve been that one shining star in the night sky, shining brighter than the others, until that’s all you can see in the surrounding darkness.” His lips rested over mine, for the shortest moment, before they fell away. “Your light is blinding.”

Had he really just said I was the one with delusions? Had he missed the fact that he was the most perfect person in the world?

“Come on,” he encouraged, strolling back over to the table we’d spent the majority of the day at. “We’ve still got a couple hours to go over a few more things.”

When he’d continued our
studies,
minus the other two students, he’d informed me of something I didn’t expect to take so hard. The ironic part was that I’d been adamantly against having children in my Mortal life. You know, the whole,
there’s enough procreating going on already—don’t want to bring another child into this messed up world—the genetic line ends with me?

No kids.

Besides, I’d have to find someone to make them with, and since I’d viewed that as a near impossibility even weeks ago, it was easy dismissing the whole procreation thing.

But being told that my body, in all its Immortal wonder, was incapable of ever creating or carrying a child, had sent a sadness searing through me I’d not anticipated.

When William had finally reentered the library after giving me some time alone, he’d looked so apologetic, it physically pained me. Witnessing his selflessness and goodness yet again, sent me into another bout of sorrow when I made the connection that he would never have the opportunity to bring a child into existence, either.

He would never be the epitome of what every father should be to a child. Neither of us would gaze lovingly into the face of a baby that had William’s full mouth and my round eyes. This was just one of the many heavy sacrifices we made as Immortals—and there were many.

A knock at my door interrupted my train of thoughts, stopping them in their tracks. Hoping to find the person I wanted to see the most on the other side, I swung open the door; only to wish I’d never opened it when I saw the person I wanted to see the very least, before me.

“Good evening,” John greeted me, his impossible beauty somehow revolting—probably having to do with the way his lips curled at the ends when he smiled at me and the way his eyes appraised me. “I realized I’ve been remiss in not giving you a tour of the estate outside the walls of the Manor. As your classes are done for the day, I thought I’d give you a private tour now. How does that sound?”

I’d rather stuff bamboo shoots up my nails
, was my gut response, but I knew the role I needed to play until William got us out of here, so I gritted my teeth through an accommodating smile. “That’d be great.”

I shut the door behind me, and took a quick glance down the long hall where William’s room was. I wanted to see him, at the same time I didn’t, because I was sure he’d freak out if he saw John and me leaving the Manor together at this late hour.

I followed him down the steps, allowing him to lead by a couple so I could compose myself for however long and whatever would be discussed during this private tour. Not that I wasn’t eager to see the remainder of the estate. From Annabelle’s descriptions today—in between the subjects we learned in Immortal High—there was a lot I had yet to see. I just wished my tour guide was somebody else—my professor would have been just fine with me.

“A little birdie told me you’re a fan of muscle cars, and while this one isn’t vintage, and pretty much
redefines
muscle car . . . I didn’t think you’d mind it being our means of transport tonight.” John swung open the front door, holding it open for me. His smile was crafty, but I didn’t linger long over his face when something big, shiny, and a staple in my dreams (up until William had infiltrated them, at least), purred in wait in the driveway. But this car was not meant to wait at a standstill—it was meant to go 0-100kph in 3.8 seconds.

“Whoa—” Was all my overwhelmed self could manage.

John chuckled behind me. “Do you know what it is?”

As if in response to John’s ludicrous question, the god of racing cars growled.

My head bobbed. “The Maserati MC-12.” I spoke with more reverence than the pope on Good Friday.

“You
are
an enthusiast. I’m impressed.”

That may have been true. I did have a bit more knowledge of cars than most teenage females, but this was the
MC-12
. . . who wouldn’t know this baby hit speeds over 200kph, or that it was created so Maserati could compete in the FIA GT, or that this car sold for roughly 700,000 Euros—translating into seven figures in the currency of the country we were standing in. Common knowledge, right?

“Shall we?” John said—in the midst of my drooling and mad specs running through my mind—as he descended the steps and slid into the driver’s seat.

Despite my aversion to John, the car beckoned me, causing my legs to jump down the ten stairs leading off the porch in a single leap, and in five strides, my hand was touching the holy grail of race cars.

I gingerly opened the door, not wanting to hurt an inch of the exterior made entirely of carbon fiber. I slid into the interior; an impressive balance of rugged race car and luxury cruising machine. My eyes lusted over the signature oval Maserati analogue clock, and the blue ignition button enticed me like a moth to the fire.

“You like it?” John asked, as he punched it in gear and peeled out.

Ahhhhh . . .  the sound of that engine—was a newborn’s first cry as sweet in a mother’s ears?

“Yeah,” I answered, my eyes wide from my
shouldn’t that be obvious
tone.

“How has your stay here been so far?” he asked, accelerating over the road that swept out and around the north of the Manor. It was a private road, but extended for miles in front of us.

“It’s been good so far,” I edited, not wanting to admit just how wonderful it had been.

“Do you miss anything from your previous life?” he asked, not sounding particularly interested.

I thought about my life prior, and answered truthfully, “No.”

“Would you like to hear my story, Bryn? How I became what I am today?”

We’d reached a cruising speed of 100 mph, and it felt as smooth and quiet as 30mph in any lesser vehicle.

“Okay.” My curiosity was piqued—not able to resist the events leading to the man driving a million dollar car with the kind of enthusiasm I’d imagine someone to have behind the wheel of a sub-compact.

“It was 1935, and I was twenty-five years old when I threw myself into the Hudson, desperate to put my life to an end once and for all.” His tone was oddly even given the topic. “I tried what you did, Bryn . . . water held the most appeal to me when I thought of ways to end my life.”

I barbed at his assumption—I’d not been trying to kill myself that night. I’d just been desperate to be close to William, and the ocean offered me the biggest promise of this. I let his assumption pass, though. I wasn’t going to get into an argument with John when I knew what my own mind had been that night.

“That’s when Draco and his team found me, very near death, and seeing the potential within me, they changed me.”

There were lights glowing ahead, growing brighter from the speed of the 6L, V12 charging like the white rider of the apocalypse.

“And of course you know the rest. I became an Immortal and now am a member of our Alliance’s Council.”

“Why did you jump into the Hudson?” My curiosity won out again over the voice in my head that told me to shut up.

His answer came automatically, as if programmed, “Ten years earlier, my father came home one night from his favorite haunt that had poured enough fluid in him to make him especially foul.” John slowed the car as the establishment came into view. It looked like a mini college campus; an expansive courtyard surrounded by several brick buildings adorned with stained glass and medieval style architecture.