Immortal Flame (26 page)

The lines on Barnaby's face deepened.

After completing the preparations he felt were necessary, Peter motioned for Barnaby to approach.

“Barnaby, could you stand over there but be available just in case? I don't know how I'll be afterward.”

“I'll be right here, son,” his old friend said.

Peter shed his clothing as he stood on the tarp near the shore. When this was all over, he'd either be alive or dead. There would be absolutely nothing in between.

Completely naked, he was oblivious to the crisp air in his non-human state. To begin, he recounted as many of his kills as he could remember. The faces, the screams, the hot smell of fear. He forced himself to recall Claire in the iron lung and the choice he made to go down this path. Even knowing what he did now, he'd sell his soul again to save her life. And then he thought about Allie's bloody and broken body on the gurney.

He unsheathed the blade on his leg, its green glow apparent even in the bright sunlight. His hand shook. He knew what the Kill meant to him. Hopefully, he wasn't overthinking a trick question here, but the answer felt right. And Barnaby had told him to follow his instincts.

Peter focused all of his energy on Allie's sweet face. She brought light to his darkness. Even her unnecessary apology gave him hope that there might be a future for someone like him.

She showed him that his life wasn't worthless.

His life was worth her life.

He gritted his teeth and stared up at the blue sky.

And plunged the knife under his ribcage.

Fighting the instinct to withdraw, he took one last breath and shoved the blade upward, piercing his heart. Fire exploded through his torso.

Peter crashed to the tarp as his life's blood flowed into the lake. Molten torture coursed through his limbs, followed by ice-cold lassitude. The glowing green blade lodged in his chest pulsed hungrily as it consumed his life force.

Just as he started to lose consciousness, a loud rumble startled him. The ground shook. A scent of pungent rotten eggs permeated the air.

Jerahmeel's sinister and immaculately dressed form blocked out the morning sun as his palpable anger washed over Peter. Jerahmeel loomed over him. “Disgusting. What a disappointment.”

His voice bounced off the granite mountainside and vibrated through the frozen ground into Peter's skull. “You're worthless to me now. I do so wish I could kill you myself. But rules are rules. If you should survive, let me torment you further with the thought of my return. Cherish the rest of your pathetic existence. Whatever you do, never, ever attract my attention. If I become interested in you again, I will find you. And anyone you care for. Anywhere.”

“Yes, my lord Jerahmeel,” Peter managed to choke out. This was the last time he would have to use that phrase.

The demon scowled at Barnaby as Peter sprawled on the tarp. With Peter's life blood gushing out, he was helpless to protect Barnaby.

Jerahmeel seethed. “Did you tell him to do this? You know I don't abide interference.” He patted his perfect curls. “I could destroy you with my bare hands.”

“No, sire, I didn't tell him anything. And, yes, I know you have the power to destroy me, but if I understand the rules, you cannot,
my lord
.”

Jerahmeel roared into the cold air; his evil echoes loosened rocks that crashed from the top of the cirque into the valley below. The ground beneath Peter shuddered and heaved, like it would swallow him whole.

Barnaby said, “You're older than even I, Jerahmeel, but I've learned a few things over all these years.”

“Silence, old man.”

“What are you going to do, condemn me to an eternal hell on Earth? You already did that. I escaped it.” Barnaby wheezed in the cold air. “You must leave this boy alone, per the rules to which you are committed.”

“Fine. But if he survives, make sure he keeps his mouth shut. May you both die soon and with great suffering.” He pinned Peter with a nasty stare.

Peter nodded weakly.

“And that Ward? Your
amour
? Did she survive?”

You can't have her, you bastard
.

“I don't know,” Peter whispered.

“She reminds me of someone I know. Someone delectable. Ah, yes, now I know. Someone I'd like to have for myself … Perhaps later.” He licked his ruby-red lips, bizarre eyes avid. “Too bad you forfeited your chance to know.”

“Stay away from Allie,” Peter rasped.

Jerahmeel shook his head. “If you survive, you'd best make sure that Ward keeps her skills to herself.” He paused, snow melting around his shiny leather shoes. “Personally, I'd prefer for you to simply fail.”

Peter blinked into the bright sky as Jerahmeel leaned over. Cloying sulfurous smoke clogged Peter's nostrils. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open but fought for every last bit of air to stay conscious.

Keep Allie safe
.

Jerahmeel reached down, then twisted and ripped the glowing knife out of Peter's torso, sneering as Peter jerked in agony. “I hope this hurts like hell and you perish, regardless of your so-called noble efforts. You are a worthless,
pathétique
human.”

Torrents of blood gushed out as Peter's life ebbed away.

Jerahmeel gave the men one last contemptuous glare, and with another tremor of the earth, he disappeared.

Peter's vision dimmed as Barnaby knelt next to him. He wanted to focus only on Allie and her sweet face. He felt her echo. One last flicker of contact, a guttering flame. If she survived, then maybe he had succeeded after all?

The last pint of blood drained out of his body. Jerahmeel hadn't killed him, he had simply removed the knife. Peter's laser-accurate strike had taken care of the Kill. His mind went blank as he took a final breath.

Peter's undead heart stopped.

• • •

No birds chirped. A slight breeze disturbed the small area of exposed water. Little sloshes of water upon smooth pebbles broke the silence in the chilly, clear air. Barnaby contemplated his deceased friend and glanced around once more for Jerahmeel.

“Peter, my boy, I hope you've figured out Rule Number One. The one thing that breaks the contract.” Barnaby spoke to the pale body of his friend on the tarp.

Had Peter done it? Only time would tell.

He had no recollection of how long his own body had lain on the ground, soaking the soil with his blood. He simply counted himself lucky to have awakened as a human.

What should he do now? The idea of washing oneself clean and being reborn seemed like a good plan. With gnarled, arthritic hands, he rolled Peter's bloody body into the frigid lake. His friend slipped beneath the surface. With a resigned sigh, Barnaby sat on the clean portion of tarp and waited.

It had been more than two weeks since she and Peter had found Quincy at Aneroid Lake. Back home now, Allison and Ivy were up to walking for ten minutes at a time, very slowly.

She smiled at her limping dog, whose tail still wagged. Ivy flashed a happy doggy grin. Ivy hadn't left Allison's side since they'd been reunited on the way home from Grande Ronde Hospital. Allison had a hard time corralling the giant canine's exuberance, for both their sakes.

Walking on flat ground, careful not to jar her right chest or her left shoulder, Allison gingerly inhaled the cool spring air. Against the clear blue skies, the snow-covered Wallowa Mountains rose to the east. Today, the sun shone brightly today on the fields, bright green with spring growth. She should've been grateful to be alive, but her soul was as empty as a home where all the occupants had fled.

While she was in the hospital, Allison had experienced shocking feedback from her connection with Peter. She had pressed back into the connection with her love for him, and tried to push her love through that link.

Then nothing.

Their low-level connection had ceased. The void hurt more than the aches from her wounds. Allison had cast her mind about over the past days, trying to get a sense of Peter, but all that remained was a lonely vacuum.

Whatever he had done, he had suffered. Without any sense of him whatsoever, she knew in her heart that he was dead.

She now understood
takotsubo
cardiomyopathy, “broken heart syndrome.” Her lungs burned when she breathed, her head pounded like a hammer on an anvil, and her heart ached like it couldn't expand properly. There would never be another man like Peter in her life, but he had left her behind to carry on her mundane human existence. Alone.

She tried to put on a brave face for folks at the hospital and for her family, but upon arriving home she politely asked everyone to give her some space. With piles of well-intended casseroles stocked in the fridge, she faced her loss in miserable solitude.

Reaching the end of the lane, Allison winced as Ivy's tug on the leash jarred her collarbone. Anton's pressure had displaced it and torn surrounding tissue. The orthopedic surgeon had plated her collarbone at the same time as her thoracotomy. The fracture site ached, but she knew it would knit more quickly now.

A black Hummer approached with the window rolled down. Angry gangster rap poured out of the vehicle. Ever cheerful, Dante poked his blond head out.

“Doing okay?”

“Fine, thanks for checking,” she said.

He smiled. “Need anything?”

She shook her head and turned slowly around as Dante drove off.

He'd checked on her daily since Peter left, and she was certain it was on Peter's orders that he did so. Poor guy. She bet he'd rather be anywhere but here, babysitting an invalid.

The one time Dante had touched her skin, she got a small buzz of connection. He was, after all, death, and detecting death was, after all, her specialty.

She smiled to herself. All the nice people had offered up help and condolences, shook her hand, and hugged her. In the past she would've had a bad vision by now. Her “gift” resurfaced at times, but at least she could block it more easily now, much to her relief. Hopefully in the future she could learn to open herself up again.

And Quincy was alive, representing the first time a vision had led Allison to
prevent
a death. She had a pretty powerful skill, and now she wanted to try to use it. Maybe she could help save someone else in the future. Maybe.

Faintly, she heard a vehicle door slam behind her on the road. Expecting to see Dante coming back with another question, she nearly kept walking. Thinking better of it, she turned to see Peter's truck idling at the end of the dirt road, with Barnaby at the wheel. The old man bowed his bald head with a flourish of his hand and then pulled away.

Peter stood in the middle of the road.

Blood drained to Allison's feet as she stared in disbelief.

He approached her, haltingly, as though each step took a massive effort.

Lightheaded, she stood still, blinking to make sure she wasn't imaging things. Ivy yipped, and then sat, as if sensing the gravity of the situation.

Peter stopped, inches away. Was he a ghost?

Dropping the leash, Allison placed a shaking hand on his very corporeal chest. His heart beat steadily beneath her fingertips.

She moved her hand to her own heart and leaned forward with a choked cry. Their mental link clicked into place as he guided her into his chest, connecting them physically, too. The comfortable blanket of their link settled on her so softly.

Sobs racked her body as she wept into him her fear and anger. She fisted the fabric of his shirt and held on tightly. If she let go, she feared he would disappear again.

Looking up at his shaven face, the pallor of his skin shocked her. Fatigue had etched deep circles beneath his perfectly normal brown eyes.

“What happened?” she asked, touching his angular jaw. He'd lost weight.

“It's a long story.” He smoothed her hair, closing his eyes when his hand contacted the skin of her neck. “But I'm here now.”

“I know. I can feel you in here.” She pressed her hand to his sternum; their connection had changed timbre. His mind seemed warm now, his body cooler. But the bond remained intact.

“For how long are you back?” It was her best attempt to make the question casual, non-threatening. Anything but desperate.

“As long as you want me to be here.” There was lightness about him she'd never sensed before. He no longer radiated anger. The tension around his mouth was gone. In its place was a wry smile.

“Are you … ”

“Free?”

“Yes.”

His smile crinkled little lines around his eyes. “Oh, yes. I'm completely free now. I'm free to get old and withered, free to lose my mind when the time comes, free to never leave your side.”

“How did you—”

“Trade secret.” Glancing around furtively, he lifted up his shirt, revealing a jagged scar beneath the center of his ribcage.

Allison gasped.

“Apparently, I was dying to be near you again. You know, I could feel you in my heart as I died.”

“I felt you, too. There was pain and then nothing. What does all of this mean?”

He traced her cheek with his index finger. “You have some rules to follow. Now that I'm human, the only way you and your family will remain safe is if you never use your powers to identify one of our kind.”

She leaned into his hand, loving the roughness of his palm. “Shouldn't be a problem. I'm better at blocking and filtering these days. If I find another one like you, mum's the word. But what about our connection? I can't stop that.”

“I don't think Jerahmeel cares about that anymore. He didn't believe I'd survive the transition back to human.”

She traced the red ridge of his scar with shaking fingertips. It was a fresh injury, newly healed. Gooseflesh rose under her touch and she smoothed his shirt back down. “So how was it?”

“How was what?”

“Becoming human.”

Grimacing, he squinted up at the Wallowas. “Terrible. Totally worth it.”