Gods of Anthem (32 page)

It’s only fair, since he’s really the mysterious one.

Finishing slowly, and reluctantly, I float back down to earth until I’m human again and turn to gaze at purple eyes filled with so many emotions.

Jeremy sits enraptured, face alight with interest and something too bright to recognize. “Music is your life, your love,” he says.

Not completely. “Music is freedom,” I tell him.

That makes him smile. “From?”

He knows, but he wants to hear it.

“Pain,” I say. “The end of the world….” Then, more softly, “Myself.”

His brown hair falls in front of his eyes when he nods in complete understanding. And that is what we have. An understanding.

Speaking keeps me tethered. Otherwise I feel I might float away. “My father said the universe has its own song older than time itself,” I explain. “We merely play a small part. It’s not like it’s the music that speaks, he said, but the pauses in between … like … I don’t know …”

“A heartbeat?”

“Yes. The stops and starts.”

“Sort of like how we yearn for those most in their absence.”

I focus on the piano keys to keep from asking:
Do you yearn for me, Jeremy?

“My mother argued, though,” I add. “She said music is wasted if there’s no one to dance to it.”

He sighs, content. “I love hearing you talk like this, about your past. It’s a side of you I’ve not seen.”

One that no one sees….

His renewed smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. “What would you have done, Liza? I mean, with your playing, before the flood.”

“Orchestra, maybe. A band. Or the greatest of goals: concerto.”

Jeremy raises his brows in question.

“Concertos are solos with a backup orchestra,” I explain. “Usually three movements long: the first movement is fast and in sonata form, the second movement is slow and in ternary form, and the third movement is fast again and in rondo form.”

His fingers push back loose strands of my hair, and his voice is warm. “I could listen to you talk like this all day.”

I could say the same when he talks about writing.

I become lost in the purple, and a corner of his mouth quirks up in confidence. This close, he’s pure menace to my senses. Jeremy’s still high off of his victory—battle-buzzed. His speech in the warehouse struck home, and this is how he’s chosen to celebrate with me.

Maybe I’m much more than simply a passing fancy.

The thought jacks up my heart rate; I’m a prize for the awesomeness that Jeremy Writer lives and breathes each and every day.

His lips are an inch from mine. “Say something musical.”

“Largo—” But the “g” and the “o” are captured by his mouth before his lips make their way to my chin. “Gusto, forte, Baroque …”

Muffled warmth caresses my throat so the word is almost missed.

“More,” Jeremy whispers.

Nearly breathless and with blood heating my voice, I whisper back, “Allegro … andante … a … ada … adagio … mmm….”

Love being love.

The weeks after
Jeremy’s speech in Kiniva’s arena hasn’t shown the change we’d expected. If we thought the citizens would have some grand reaction, then, sadly, we were wrong.

And without them, we’ll lose. We’re still a drop in the bucket compared to the Authority’s army of guards. Kiniva, too, had offered with his own men, if only they chose to strike the first match, but he’s gone for now, until when, none of us know.

Regretfully, in light of this unexpected sameness, I’ve returned to the courthouse, and Jeremy’s returned to ranting on the roof each night. I’ve been in a selfish mood these last few visits, having tired of his incessant, desperate monologues and restless with our small touches here and there.

Clearly, the honeymoon is over.

The night before last, I mentioned needing a night to myself. He agreed, and said I looked tired. I fought the urge to slap him and instead had graciously replied, “Yes, we’re all quite exhausted.”

He’s wrong, though. Each day, it’s like I gain more energy. Since having chemo, I should be slowly returning to health, but I’m beyond that. Some days, I just want to run a marathon.

“We need something more!” he yells, arms thrust out as he paces. His palms flip as if he can’t decide whether he should slap his thighs or his cheeks. “We need to find the rest of the population who’d do something, but can’t. We need to make a statement. They know our position, but they need something to wake them up!”

“That sounds risky,” I say.

My last stunt almost made me zombie bait, and I’m fresh out of suicidal antics as of late. Hopelessness about the “cause” clings to everyone. Even Crystal’s been talking about making demands and finding common ground with Reginald Cromwell himself.

Jeremy went insane when he first heard this. “She wouldn’t!” he cried. “Has she lost her mind?” And he’d rounded on me with wide eyes. “Have they all lost their minds?”

Beating a dead horse …

A velvety smooth
voice startles me when I enter the barracks.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

Vero’s sitting on my bunk, waiting for me.

“Did you hear?” I ask.

I’m still focused on the news about going home, and I’m ignoring this conversation for … ever.

“Yeah, I heard. Don’t try to deflect, Hatter.”

Shrugs do in a pinch. I toss my hat onto the stand and start to kick off my shiny shoes.

I expected her to be more excited, but Vero seems pensive at best. Her black hair’s tied in a low ponytail, and she’s changed out of her dress uniform, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the collar stretched out and riding low.

I pause while undoing the buttons of my jacket. Dark eyes have followed my hands on the trail downward, and my buzz is making me read something new in her expression.

“It is my fault, Vero,” I say in a thick voice. “I should have known it was a trick. Poor Murph didn’t stand a chance. Why’d I go off half-cocked, anyway? If only I’d waited….”

Her smile is sweet, knowing. “Because you care. Because you’re you.”

Vero stands, and she picks up where I left off on my jacket buttons. Then, she pulls it down my arms, but I catch her hands, stop them when she reaches for my shirt. So it isn’t the buzz.

“Joelle,” I say lamely, looking for an excuse.

Vero arches a dark brow. “Asleep. I checked.”

She tugs my hand toward the bunk. There, we sit side by side, and she looks over at my pillow and sheets before shooting me a glance that only an idiot would miss.

But I’m playing that idiot right now.

“Listen,” she says, and I hang on her every word, yet nod like I’ve just tuned in. “That thing with Murphy … it was terrible. But you weren’t in your right mind. The whole thing’s Cory’s fault. And it’s bugging me that you’d take that on … like you do with everything else.” Vero turns, bringing her pretty face mere inches from mine. “I know what you haven’t said, about that girl, Daisy—shh, you don’t have to talk about it, but you do blame yourself for every damned thing, Tommy. I just … if you’d let me—”

“Vero—”

“No, let me finish. I could help you.” Her tongue peeks out to wet her lips. “I want to help.”

My brain shuts off as I stare at her mouth while it curves into a smile.