Grim (10 page)

“Jeremiah …”

“Let me finish.” His legs were crossed, his left hand on one knee and his right propped on the back of the couch. He picked at the trim of one of the throw pillows. Erika thought of Matt, who sat like that after a long day and told her about a report or a case and worried over her children in a way she could never quite grasp. There were things, Matt told her, that were worse than dying. “I'd do anything,” Jeremiah repeated, and Erika came back to the parlor and the smell of smoke. He looked into her eyes. “I just want to know why.”

Erika's forehead creased. “Excuse me?”

“I need to hear it from your mouth. Why do you want them here?”

“They're my children.”

“Is that good enough?” He studied her. “Is that really good enough, Erika?” When she didn't answer, he laughed softly to himself. “My God,” he said. “Rebecca was an accident. Shawn was a mistake.
Megan
was the only one you ever really wanted.” His voice dropped to a thoughtful murmur. “You were desperate for her, weren't you?”

All that Erika's horrified expression got was a sad shake of Jeremiah's head.

“You know that it's true,” he said. “So tell me, Erika. Why should
I
fight for your children when you never did the same?”

Her mouth fell open. Her words came out in a hiss. “How dare you say that to me?”

Jeremiah turned away. He seemed troubled. “We're both too tired to deal with this right now,” he said, his tone becoming gentler. “You're getting upset with yourself. You should leave, Erika.”

“Is it because you were a whore's son?”

He sprang to his feet.

“Who told you that? Don't
talk
about my mother.”

Erika's eyes narrowed.

“I'm only telling you what you already know,” Jeremiah said. “Don't try to be clever when you have no idea what's going on now or what's gone on before. Get out of here.”

A tap broke on the door, as soft and timid as a cat's claws against tile. A young man who looked no older than Jeremiah peered around the edge.

“Is this a bad time?”

Jeremiah's arms fell. “Yes,” he said. “But come in anyway.”

“Martha let me in.”

Jeremiah nodded and folded his arms across the fireplace mantle. He dropped his forehead against his crossed wrists.

“I'm Jegud,” the man said, offering Erika his hand. “You must be Miss Stripling.”

“I am.”

“Jeremiah has told me good things about you.”

“I think that his opinion has since changed,” Erika said with a sad smile.

“Keep your theories to yourself, Erika.”

She ignored the comment. “Are you a friend of his?” she asked Jegud.

“He's my brother,” Jeremiah said.

Jegud shrugged as if apologizing.

It was true that he looked like Jeremiah, or at least more so than either Uriel or Selaph had. Jegud's features were more delicate than Jeremiah's, however. He was pale, even in the firelight, and his intensely blue eyes were bright against his skin and dark hair. He dressed like an English dandy.

“You asked me to come?” he said, turning to Jeremiah again. “Please tell me that I got that right. If I came after hours for nothing, I won't be happy.”

“You're right,” Jeremiah said. “And I'm sorry that it's so late.”

“I don't think you really are.”

“No, I am.” Jeremiah turned, arms dropping to his sides. “I'm exhausted.”

“There are cures for that,” Jegud said. “One is called
sleep
.”

“Not now. I'm not myself.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Erika saw Jegud glance in her direction.

“No, not
that
. I've been out and back in less than a day. I'm not used to it.”

“How did you manage?”

“Cancer patient,” Jeremiah said, sounding remorseful. “She was terminal, so her family was ready to let go. She seemed happy.”

“Until you made it to the gate?”

“Well, yes.”

“They always are.”

“I shouldn't have left her so soon.”

“It's not your fault.”

Jeremiah grunted. “It's completely my fault,” he said. “We both know that.” He shook his head.

His brother shifted uncomfortably. “I'll find her tomorrow,” he offered.

“That's not your job.”

Jegud held his palms up. “What can I do?”

“Get me a drink.”

Again, Erika noticed Jegud's eyes flick toward her.

“It doesn't matter,” Jeremiah said. “I need it.”

“Fine.” Jegud went to a liquor cabinet at the back of the room and took out a glass and decanter.

“You won't take anything yourself?” asked Jeremiah.

“I'm smarter than you are.”

“I wouldn't doubt it.” Jeremiah threw back the alcohol and set down his empty glass. “Erika? Let me take you back to your room. Jegud and I have some business to discuss.”

“It's boring, really,” Jegud said.

“Quite.” Jeremiah offered his hand as if it were an olive branch.

Erika looked at it for a moment, still hurt, before putting her fingers against his palm and letting him guide her out of the room.

They went down the hall and up the stairs in silence. It wasn't until they reached the threshold of her bedroom that Jeremiah ventured to speak.

“I
am
sorry, Erika.”

She shook her head. “I needed that,” she said. “I needed someone to tell me the truth for once. It's just … I'm so afraid.”

“I know you are. And that's not necessarily a bad thing.”

“No, it is,” she said. “It is, it is.” She rested her forehead against his chin. “I'm sorry I said that about your mother. I'm such a mess.” She lifted her head to look at Jeremiah, and saw how warm his eyes were, and how worried.

“No harm done,” he said. His gentleness and good intentions washed over her and her breath caught in her throat. When she leaned in, her mouth fit perfectly against his.

For a heartbeat, Jeremiah allowed himself to kiss her. Her heat filled him up, and the taste of her skin, and he wanted more. But then his eyes flew open and he jerked away. One hand flew to his lips, forcing a barrier.

“Don't, Erika,” he said from behind his fingers. “Don't start. You don't know me. You'll never know me.” His voice broke as he shook his head. “I'm sorry. Very sorry. Good night.”

He turned away, still shielding his mouth, and hurried down the hall. Erika backed into her bedroom. With the door shut and her body safely in bed, enveloped by moonlight and feather blankets and cold midnight air, she let the humiliation swallow her whole.

 

Shawn flailed when he woke, because he couldn't remember where he was. He stared wide-eyed at Rebecca, who sat at the base of an old poplar and looked at her brother as if he'd lost his mind.

“What time is it?”

“I don't know,” Rebecca said.

“It's not any brighter out.”

“Yeah, I saw.”

Shawn's eyes narrowed. “Do you have to be so sarcastic?”

“No, why?”

He shook his head, stretched with a yawn, then forced himself to his knees. “Is Megan up yet?”

“She went to find someplace to use the bathroom. What are we going to do?”

“Do you really expect an answer?”

“I'm back,” Meg announced, overloud.

Rebecca held out her hand and waited for Megan to come and curl up at her side. She pressed the warmth of her little sister close against her and stared through the darkness at Shawn. Her heart beat hard, and she hoped that Megan couldn't tell.
Take care of your sister
, her mother had always said, and though no one thought she listened, Megan meant more to Rebecca than anything else. She couldn't let Meg know how frightened she was, how nauseated she felt, and as she stared down Shawn, she dared him to say anything about it. But Shawn had always been a better sibling. Had always been the responsible one. Rebecca dropped a kiss into Megan's hair and tried to keep her hands from shaking. She didn't know how they'd gotten here, but she didn't want to think about it. She would put her fear into anger and her anger on someone else's shoulders. It had always worked before.

“Let's go,” Shawn said.

Megan's voice came out frightened. “Go where?”

Rebecca tightened her arm around Megan and leveled another glare at Shawn, waiting for him to answer.

“Home,” Shawn said. He was lying.

It was easy for Rebecca to see that he was lying. None of them knew where home was, or if they could even get there. She pushed herself to her feet, her fingers holding fast to Megan's hand. She'd pretend alongside Shawn that they knew what was going on, but only because the alternative would be too hard on Meg.
Take care of your sister
, came her mother's voice, like a mantra, from the time she was eleven and her parents had filed for divorce.
Take care of your sister
. There was no other option.

 

They'd been walking for so long that Rebecca's calves were sore, but the woods were still steeped in the dull colors of twilight. The fog made her pajamas damp, and when she tried to wipe away the ashes, she only managed to spread them. Shawn walked beside her, Megan asleep against his shoulder. Rebecca thought that he must be following her lead, and she let it annoy her. Her stomach grumbled and her throat hurt, so she let that annoy her too. She fought hard not to wonder where they were, or how they'd gotten there. It was easier to focus on small, insignificant things. On the slow burn of her muscles or the spinning in her head. On the way Shawn refused to talk to her.

She kept replaying scenes from the last few days, and each time Shawn's words cut deeper. She hated fighting with him, and she hated when he judged her. Worse, she hated the way their arguments ran through her mind like a looped photo reel.
For God's sake, control yourself.
Again, again, again.

Still. Anything was better than reevaluating her sanity — that's why she spent so much energy in building up her shell. The party girl. The bitch. The flippant sister. She wore her masks like a second skin because she couldn't handle living in her real body. Before she'd created this exoskeleton, the whole world had judged her. Now they just judged a face that wasn't really hers.

“We should stop,” Shawn said. “Megan's too heavy.”

Rebecca shrugged. She was tired anyway.

Shawn laid Megan down next to a group of trees, hovering to make sure she was still asleep. Rebecca turned her back to him and peered into the woods.

“I can't believe this,” she said.

Shawn got to his feet. “Can't believe what?”

The sharpness of his voice startled her. She hadn't counted on that. Now that he no longer had to worry about jostling Megan, his own train of thought from their march threatened to break the surface.

Rebecca braced herself.

“Can't believe,” he went on, “that I won't click my heels together and get us home?”

“That's not —”

He grabbed Rebecca's arm and pulled her farther into the woods, out of earshot of Megan. “I'm tired too, Becca,” he said, voice low. “I'm particularly tired of you expecting me to swoop in and save the day. Believe me, I wish that I could get us out of here. You think that I don't feel responsible for you and Megan?”

Rebecca stiffened. “You're not responsible for me, Shawn.”

“Well,” he shot back, “someone has to be.”

Rebecca could tell that he'd been rehearsing this speech for a while. She held her ground and waited for an opening.

“You certainly refuse to be responsible for yourself,” Shawn said. “Even now. You just keep following me like you expect us to turn the corner and see the goddamn high school. Look, I'm sorry to break it to you, but I'm not as brilliant as you think I am. I don't know where we are, I don't know why we're here, and I have no idea how to get us out. Are you happy now? I don't know.
I don't know.
For the first time in my whole life, I can't save you from something. I'm so sorry.”

Rebecca scowled. “Don't be sarcastic with me.”

“Don't tell me what to do, Rebecca.”